Shadowed Pain
by theturtlemonster
Summary: Harry never wanted the Light to hate him, to curse his very name and regret the day he was born.They turned on him first and he did what he had to do to survive.Harry never wanted to conspire with Slytherins and fall in love in the process, nor did he want to become the most feared necromancer.They made him what he was.Dark Harry.Slash.5th year:Light refuses to believe LV returned.
1. Chapter 1

**Shadowed Pain**

**Summary: **He never meant for them to hate him, to curse his name, and the day he was born. They turned on him first, and he did what he had to do. Harry Potter never meant to fall in love, or to become the most feared necromancer. They made him what he was.

**Background**: On the third task of the Triwizard tournament, Harry Potter appeared in front of the masses bloodied, crying, and holding the body of Hufflepuff's star Seeker. Barty Crouch Junior followed his Master's instructions, and did not make any contact with the boy, causing Dumbledore to have no proof other than Harry's word that the Dark Lord had returned. After months of no activity, Dumbledore decided that Lily and James' precious child was merely causing trouble for attention. This announcement sparked a campaign of hate towards the Boy Who Lived, and caused everyone, even his closest friends, to hate him for trying to disturb the peace they had fought so hard for.

**Timing:** The story starts in Harry's fifth year, on Christmas Day. For the purpose of the story, Marcus is only a year above him.

**Please read and review :) All are appreciated, especially construction criticism. 3 **

**This is my first story, I hope you like it. :)**

* * *

><p>The menacing church tower loomed high in the grey thundering sky, its stone slabs speaking of ages long forgotten. At the tallest point, where the black tip was blurred with the dark fog surrounding it, golden eyes glowered down at the world, silently judging from the silvered crucifix their bloodied naked body was nailed to. Ancient bells sang song, breaking into a steady rhythm to alert those still faithful to the approaching hour.<p>

Cool moist air carrying with it decaying leaves swept across the cobbled path leading to the House of God, where a steady flow of brown oak leaves deterred from the air's path by wind, disappeared through arched windows.

Heavy wooden doors, raised several feet above the ground, marked the entrance to this place of worship. They could be reached, only, by climbing the wide black marbled steps, upon which stains of red could be seen if looked upon closely. The origin of the stains was questionable, as was the crimson substance which tarnished the church entrance, but it only added to the mystique of the gothic cathedral.

Along the cobbled path, the same black marble was used to depict saints - usually in the throes of death. Some looked through silvered eyes pleadingly at worshipers coming to mass with arrows protruding from their heads; others looked calmly in the face of death while axes tore gruesomely through their necks.

Harry Potter had never spent a Christmas break with his relatives since he was ten years old, and, after receiving a twisted coat hanger, he had vowed in his first year at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry that he would never return to Little Whinging unless he absolutely had to. However, as Harry sat staring into the fire in the Gryffindor common room at five o'clock in the morning, afraid to sleep in case his roommates would prank him again, or his House humiliate him with their scathing remarks, it seemed like a good idea to return.

It wasn't that they hated him, Harry reasoned, they just didn't understand. They just didn't believe him. And quite honestly, he knew how it must look - he had returned after the Third Task clutching a body and a portkey, which would have made even the most trusting friend suspicious. It was only a _priori incantatem_ on his wand, checking he had not cast an avada kedavra on Cedric Diggory, that had saved him from being in Azkaban at the this very moment. Not to mention how Voldemort had yet to even make a move, even capture a single Muggle. Even he, Harry, had questioned his sanity, questioned whether he had simply dreamt of that night, of whether it had been him to cut his own arm to make his story more real, him who killed Cedric.

That was until he started dreaming of the corridor, and before his scar started to burn constantly with what he recognised as happiness.

From Voldemort.

It was then he realised what he was thinking was exactly what Voldemort wanted him to think. And that the Light's reaction to his story was playing right into Voldemort's hand.

Ron, Hermione, Ginny ... Dumbledore, Fudge, Rita Skeeter ... The teachers, the pupils, the portraits ... no one believed him.

And they ridiculed him for believing himself.

'Boy,' Uncle Vernon wheezed, his greying hair damp with sweat from the car ride, 'I don't want any funny business.' Vernon narrowed his small black eyes, 'I assume that your kind can enter a church?' He breathed, giving a wary glance at Aunt Marge who was sitting in the drivers' seat.

Sitting by the fire, Harry was stressed out by his exams and hadn't slept in days. It was due to this he reasoned - though later Harry would argue it was down to fate - that Harry overlooked a very important detail. Every Christmas, ever since Harry could remember, the Dursleys went to Maidstone, a small town just outside London, to visit Aunt Marge and her thirteen dogs.

Harry hated Privet Drive.

He _loathed_ Maidstone.

With a minute nod, Harry answered Vernon's rather racist query, before returning his attention to the gothic cathedral. Although, he had never entered a church before ... No, Hermione had told him before long tales of the dull uneventful ceremony called mass, and while she was Muggleborn, she was still a witch.

In the past, on this day - the twenty-fifth of December - Aunt Marge would look down at his scrawny, unfed self, and mutter that he was no threat to her, nor her dogs which 'could tear the Boy down in a second if they wanted to'. It was during this annual scrutiny he had known for ten years, that she would declare he needn't go to mass with them, as she doubted he could so much as break one bone of her precious dogs.

The theory she applied was simple - Aunt Marge was too tight with her money to pay a nanny to install discipline when she could do a 'much better job, one that doesn't face the boundaries of law nannies are faced with when it comes to physical discipline', but she didn't want to bring an uneducated orphan to church where her friends would see him and think she assorted with 'his type'.

So she left Harry with her precious dogs, which Marge felt could take anything Harry would throw at them. However, this year, believing him to be a hardened criminal with no conscience and a sick sense of humour, Marge had looked down at him the night before and announced that he would be accompanying them to Christmas mass.

Sighing, Harry really wished he could have been left alone. He had no desire to enter the church, which was beginning to give him strange shivers up his back, and he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck sticking up. It felt, though he immediately dismissed the idea, as if he was in the presence of a dementor.

Harry bit his lip as he studied his relatives. Not one of them, busily undoing their seatbelt and checking their reflection in the rear-view mirror, seemed to be aware of the coldness the cathedral radiated. As far as he could tell, Harry saw no animals - not even a single spider - nor any plants or trees. The only movement was the wind, smashing bits of twigs and leaves around the stone walls of the cathedral.

Petunia, seemingly satisfied with her reflection, unlocked her car door and stood outside waiting for the others. Dudley, yawning as he undid the seatbelt - which sharply flew back into place, rebounding off the window as it was released from the folds of Dudley's fat - too got out. Marge, with a glare at Harry as if he was doing something unforgivable simply by being there, charged uncharacteristically energetically out to the cobbled path.

Vernon wagged a chubby finger at Harry, 'Mark my words boy.' He rasped, 'One word from you ...' he trailed off menacingly before sliding out.

Clutching his wand, Harry fumbled with the lock on the car door, unused to the Muggle lock, and entered the grounds. His shiver continued, spreading from the tiniest hairs on the base of his neck, all the way down to his toes. There was definitely something up with this place, something ... evil. Harry shook his head - the paranoia he often felt Voldemort radiating must have rubbed off on him.

Yet he couldn't help the feeling that those golden eyes were watching him, studying...

'Boy!' Aunt Marge barked, her wrinkled face reddening with impatience. She whistled loudly, as if he was just another one of her dogs, before turning to catch up with his relatives, clutching a putrid acid green handbag she had proudly showed to Petunia that morning. Apparently it was designer from Spain -although Aunt Marge referred to the country as Espagne - and a 'must have'.

Shaking his head, a small smile on his face with amusement, Harry Potter walked sluggishly towards his family, uncaring of what someone watching might say about the boy drowning in hand-me-down clothing. It wasn't, Harry reckoned, as if he would ever talk to anyone here again - apart from his relatives.

How wrong he was.

Catching up with Dudley, who was panting from the exercise and had fallen behind the group, Harry slowed to a trudge. Allowing Dudley to lead him, it was only when he stopped walking that Harry looked up from his thoughts.

Frowning, he noted he was standing in front of a much smaller building - where was the marbled stairway, the large oak doors? Where were the beautiful statues, and the long cobbled path?

No, what he was in front of was much simpler than the grand gothic tower, with the golden judging eyes. It was a simple church building, built from brick and cement, looking for all the world so common that Harry did not know why they were having mass - which was supposedly a special life-changing service - in such an ordinary building when such an unnatural tower lay only a half mile away.

Perhaps, a fleeting thought passed Harry's mind, they were renovating? But no, the dark beauty that was the tower needed no work done - it was perfect on its own. Not at all, he scoffed, like the building he stood before.

A small roofed area marked the entrance to the place of worship, the clear glass roof showing the decaying leaves and twigs which obscured the view of the silver sky. Short, ugly brick pillars held the glass, in what was a failed attempt to be modern. Long artificial reaves, of a colour Harry was sure he had heard being referred to as 'forest green' - a decidedly unnatural shade - were draped across them, clashing with the red of the brick. The entrance, unlike the grand gleaming oak doors of the tower, was narrow and small, painted the colour of fresh printing paper. Harry could see no cross marking the building as a church; indeed it looked rather like a Grounds-keepers cottage. All he could see were large crowds of middle-aged balding men who stood awkwardly, while woman dressed in their finest gossiped with fellow friends.

It was with this last observation, that Harry turned to Dudley, sure that they had walked to the wrong building. 'Why,' Harry asked Dudley, evidence of his shock since Dudley was not exactly the fountain of all knowledge so conversations were limited and uninteresting, 'is church in this building, and not the tower?'

Dudley, who had been walking as if there was nothing troubling him, turned to look at Harry. His powder blue eyes narrowed as his brows furrowed in confusion, 'What tower?'

Clearly, Harry realised, Dudley was even more idiotic than Harry had realised. Was it really possible that Dudley had been going to this church for _fifteen_ years, and he had never realised there was a tower right next to the church. It certainly ruled out the idea the building was being used while the tower was being renovated.

Some of this must have shown in his expression since Dudley elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. Dudley never was the kindest, nor the most patient person Harry reflected as he struggled to regain his breath to respond. 'That tower. There.' He pointed.

Dudley turned, looking in the direction Harry pointed. His head turned, searching for the tower his cousin spoke of. Frowning, he glanced at the surrounding land once more, before turning back to face Harry. 'There is no tower.'

Harry Potter looked at his cousin in a whole new light. He had never realised just how stupid his cousin was - could he really not see a single tower? Did Dudley know what a tower was? Did he understand English?

Frustrated, because Dudley was looking at him as if he was the crazy one, Harry grabbed both Dudley's shoulders and forced him to look in the direction of the tower. 'Do you see that tall building, the one with the cone at the top? The one with _Jesus Christ_ staring from the top at everyone?' His cousin still frowned in confusion, 'Right there!' Harry pointed at the tower. _'Right there!'_

Dudley shoved himself out of Harry's grip, 'What are you? Crazy?' He exclaimed, his tone actually fearful for Harry, his eyes searching. 'There is nothing there! There is only one building on these grounds - always has been!' His powder blue eyes pinned Harry's own emerald gaze, begging him to understand.

But Harry, always the stubborn Gryffindor, would not let this one go. 'Those black statues, see them? The ones in a straight line along that cobbled road, over there?'

Dudley looked at him, biting his lip.

'You're not looking!' Harry shoved him, trying to make him see. 'They're made out of black marble, I think. All of them are shown in the act of how they died - some peaceful, some terrified. Right?' Harry, caught up in explaining this to his clearly delusional cousin, didn't look down to see how he was taking it. 'They're in a straight line,' he repeated, 'and they lead up to those marble steps. Right there,' Harry pointed. 'The marbled steps that lead up to the tower.'

But Dudley now looked annoyed, 'Stop trying to be funny! There are no statues! There is no tower!' He shook Harry's shoulders.

Harry, slightly annoyed at the shaking, looked up at Dudley. Whether the tower was there, or not, he could see in Dudley's eyes that he was being serious about this.

One of them was right; the other delusional - but Harry realised that Dudley really did believe that there was no tower. With one last glance in Harry's eyes, and a fleeting look at the scar hidden beneath his raven locks, Dudley turned and half-ran up to his parents.

'All right then.' He mumbled, scratching his head slightly. All the while, golden eyes stared down at him. He could feel the itching, the shivering of his body - a feeling he only got around dementors. For a fraction of a second, Harry could have sworn something brushed his arm, right at the wrist. That something touched his forehead, his temples. That something touched his heart. But when he looked, when he twisted and turned and glanced around, all he could see was empty air.

Biting his lip, the Boy-Who-Lived walked through the plain white doors of the tiny insignificant building his first church service was to take place in, without looking back at the gleaming golden eyes burning into the back of his head.

After ten long minutes, it occurred to Harry that he really had missed nothing in the aspect of religious education. Perhaps it was the ancient priest droning on and on about a donkey! Or maybe it was how said donkey was apparently a metaphor for new beginnings? Whatever it was the priest had slipped into his tea before mass, it was working.

Rubbing his eyes with his hand, Harry looked up to see the priest glaring at him - yeah; because it was his fault half the congregation were sitting checking their watches impatiently. True, Harry doubted any of the congregation wanted to spend an hour learning about some family who was born two thousand years before their time, but the priest's ancient and slow stuttering voice certainly didn't help matters. He was, Harry reflected absent-mindedly, worse that Peter Pettigrew.

It was only when the priest marched out, to joyous songs and what appeared to be a standing ovation - although Harry noted there was no whistling or clapping ... - that a small smile graced the Light's Saviour's face. Finally, it was over. He could feel his shoulder's sagging in relief, but as a rough hand grabbed his shoulder they tensed once more. Immediately, the Boy Who Lived flinched back, emerald eyes flashing.

'Put that bloody thing away!' Uncle Vernon snarled at him, his voice menacing and full of cold fury.

Harry followed his eyes to the Phoenix wand clenched in his right hand. With a small gulp, Harry slid it back into his back pocket, while slowly backing away from his uncle.

'This is a House of God!' Vernon exclaimed, though more to himself than no his nephew. Vernon's small beady black eyes looked around nervously at the people loitering in the church. 'Lovely day, isn't it?' He half-yelled brightly to a few passers-by.

He turned back to his nephew, a smile on his face for the sake of the few who were looking, but it would take a fool not to see the menace in his eyes. 'Me, Petunia, Dudley and Marge will be going out for Christmas dinner. You, of course, will not be coming with us. Do whatever you wish, come back late,' his eyes narrowed, 'alone. You have your keys - don't wake us up.'

Ah, that late. Vernon would only go to bed at about one of two in the morning - it was three o'clock in the afternoon right now. What to do with eleven hours to kill, little money and no friends?

* * *

><p>It turned out sitting in a church, when no one else was there, was quite a soothing experience. At least, that was what the Boy Who Lived thought, and prior to the Triwizard Tournament, his opinion had been gold. It was more like dust now, Harry reflected - something that landed in your life for but an irritating moment, until you simply flicked it away.<p>

Or at least, that was what Reeta Skeeter was driving through every Daily Prophet buying wizard with her daily column entitled 'The Boy Who Lied'. Not the most ingenious title, but it did come from the mind who firmly believed - and regularly wrote about it in her daily column - that it had been Harry, not Voldemort, who killed his parents that fateful Hallows Eve. When he was a year old. The worrying thing was some people did believe it...

The wooden benches were actually quite comfortable to lie on, Harry reflected, stretching. Though he was sure if that priest could see him now there would be hell to pay. He yawned, sitting up, and stared at the green crucifix suspended from the ceiling. The Jesus resting on it seemed so small, so weak, and so powerless - not at all like the all-seeing golden eyed man who rested on the highest point of the tower. Which once more raised the question of why mass would be held in such an ordinary, insignificant room.

Harry honestly didn't know how he could see the tower, but Dudley couldn't. It was startling, but looking back, he was sure he could recall Petunia making a comment about all the empty land going to waste. And none of the congregation huddled in the small courtyard in front of the church had paid any attention to the dark beauty of the tower.

This meant that he was delusional.

Unless ...

Emerald eyes flashed. In a split second, Harry Potter was on his feet - all sleepiness forgotten. His intense eyes gave one last fleeting look at the crucifix suspended from the ceiling, before he charged out into the twilight.

As the darkness pooled over him, absorbing him, Harry Potter looked as if he had just escaped from a story book in which he played the all powerful, insane wizard who could do everything, and defeat anyone. The moment the icy wind brushed past him, it brushed his raven locks into chaos. His pink lips parted, gasping for air as the cold wind rose goosebumps on his pale skin.

'Muggles,' he muttered a mad gleam in his eyes, 'are blind.'

It was only as goosebumps broke out across his arms, his legs, and his chest that the feeling of a dementor returned to Harry. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising, and his gleaming eyes slowly dilated. Harry felt his toes numbing, and his cheeks going pink from the cold. In one quick swift movement, he drew his wand from his back pocket and raised it to eye level, making the decision to use magic if provoked.

With a cautious glance to the left, and to the right, Harry Potter strode towards the marbled steps. The red on the stairs, upon closer observation, was undoubtedly blood, though from what, Harry had no clue. It was everywhere; on every step, on every railing. Staring at the tiny, crimson dots - remnants of some forgotten man - almost made Harry reconsider knocking on the huge oak doors. Indeed, the ornate black raven that was the knocker seemed to be almost taunting him; daring him to disturb those who dwelled within the tower, those who presumably caused the crimson dots on stairs.

It was with every last once of Gryffindor courage and stupidity that Harry Potter walked up those thirteen stairs, raised one pale trembling hand and knocked seven times. He could feel cold beads of sweat running down his forehead as he waited for answer. Perhaps Harry stood there for days, but it could have minutes or mere seconds; all he knew was that it felt likes hours had passed before he heard footsteps creaking behind the door.

Harry gulped. A lump rose in his throat, and he resisted the urge to start coughing. His eyes flashed, flickering over his surroundings for any attackers, or for any danger. He couldn't get those red dots out of his head now, and it was with horror that he noticed a single fleck on the oak of the door. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, going faster than it ever had in his life time. His hand, clutching his wand hard enough to draw blood, suddenly clamped in fear.

Emerald eyes wide, Harry listened as he heard locks drawn back and a quiet murmur. Glancing up at the golden eyes which were staring intently back into his own wide orbs, Harry Potter wished he had never gone to church. He wished like he had never wished in his life, that he was still a scrawny insignificant looking person that Aunt Marge would trust to remain in her house alone.

And then the heavy oak door swung slowly open, the loud creak doing nothing to assuage Harry's nerves. Swallowing, he forced himself to calm - to not bolt in the opposite direction and never look back. He forced himself to push back his shoulders, and stand tall; ready for what fate would bring him.

And then emerald met black.

Harry Potter felt lost as he stared into their inky depths - what was he called? Why was he here?

It all ceased to matter as he stared into the dark pools full of such mystery and wisdom, of such considerable depth, that it was impossible to see the bottom. Harry felt content to live his live staring into those dark black eyes, to stare at the thin circle of white which encircled the black pupils, before the black pool began once more. He would be happy to dedicate his life to trying to reach the possible by reaching the bottom of the inky depths.

Harry watched, fascinated, as the dark eyes narrowed. The abundant wrinkles surrounding them tightened as the man with the glorious eyes glared at him. His lined brow furrowed, and yellowed teeth bit down on a thin colourless lip as he took in The Boy Who Lived. Short red stubble, the colour of fresh blood, sprung from his pale cheeks and neck, the same colour as the shoulder-length greasy hair which sprung wildly from his head.

Harry grimaced as a pungent smell reached his nostrils, and automatically took a step backwards, breaking the eye contact he held with the man. Reminding himself not to become quite so entranced with the eyes again, he raised his head just in time to hear the man speak.

'Harry James Potter, son of James of Pureblood, and Lily of Mudblood.' He raised one thick red eyebrow. It was not a question.

Harry nodded, not quite sure what situation he had landed himself in.

They knew who he was - that wasn't unusual as he was featured in Reeta Skeeter's column daily in the Daily Prophet due to popular demand. They knew his parents' names, not to mention their blood status. Again, nothing unusual in a world where blood was everything. Harry eyed the man whose eyes had never left him, and the dim unlit corridor the heavy oak door led to.

Harry could feel cold sweat dripping down his forehead, and the chill of a dementor once more raised the hairs on the back of his neck. But this time it was stronger, so intense that he couldn't help but flinch back. Clearly, Harry decided as he resisted the urge to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead, he was in a magical dwelling.

A magical dwelling important enough that it was hidden from Muggles.

Or, emerald eyes flashed as he remembered Grimmauld Place, a magical dwelling with occupants who didn't want any visitors.

That would certainly explain the blood on the stairs.

It was just as this occurred to Harry, just as he realised he should get out of there – and fast - that the man with those beautiful black eyes raised a golden knife he had been holding behind his back. He twirled the golden knife between long gnarled fingers. It was by no means a butter knife, Harry gulped. The blade alone was twelve inches long, and by the looks of it, freshly sharpened to a terrifying point.

The inky eyes didn't quite seem so beautiful, so entrancing now a knife had entered the equation. And with the man's bushy red eyebrows, large build, and muscled exterior, he looked less enchanting and more like a beast. Like an ape.

Harry gulped, determining his escape options in a split second. He couldn't run - the ape of a man would probably just throw the knife into his back. And he knew, with one glance at the ape's long legs, that even if he did manage to run, he would not get far. His wand was in his pocket, and he knew enough hexes to get out of there, underage magic be damned. Steeling his mind to it, Harry drew his wand, hoping the ape was the only one occupying the house.

It was getting to be a much too common occurrence for Harry's taste. And the fact that drawing his wand, felt like second nature to him was not what he wanted. His heart no longer thumped in fear, instead it relaxed as he felt the reassuring wand in his fingers.

Yes, after this fight, he would stop fighting battles he wanted no part in.

The Ape's eyes narrowed as he noticed the long wooden stick held in the sixteen year old's pale fingers. And it was with one quick flash that he mumbled a word under his breath, and Harry froze - completely unable to move, or even to open his mouth and cry for help.

Just like that, the Boy Who Lived defeated. With no wand, no thought, and no preparation. It was the likes of magic that Hermione would dream of, Voldemort too – to be able to cast magic without a wand, without a second thought.

His eyes, half-way through blinking, stared half-lidded with hatred at the Ape who was watching him now, arms crossed as if he wasn't holding a butchering knife in his hands. He was taking his time to watch him, to study him like an animal, and he clearly took satisfaction from Harry's fear.

Harry had never felt as helpless as he did then - he couldn't even blink, let alone cast magic. It was with a shudder that Harry realised he was completely at the Ape's mercy.

'You know Wizard, that if you hadn't drawn your wand there would have been no need for this,' he paused, his tongue flicking out as he searched for the right word, 'measure.'

Harry grimaced, wishing he could speak, that he could do something. But the spell Ape had cast on him was done with such power and skill, that he couldn't even break it to scratch his nose.

Who knew what the Ape had planned for him? He was a sixteen year old, not unattractive boy in a building which no Muggles could see. He couldn't move, couldn't scream and he couldn't cast any magic. And, if he knew who Harry was - not just his name, but his history, and the public's opinion of him - then the Ape would also know that no one would particularly care if he suddenly vanished, never to be found again.

A large hand reached out, taking firm hold of Harry's wrist, and Harry wished he could scream. The pain was excruciating, worse even than a Dementor when they fed on your worst memories. Harry couldn't move to cast an _expecto patronum_, though he doubted whether it would work against the monster in front of him. But then again, Harry didn't know if he would have the sanity left to cast it in a few minutes – for what the ape was doing was more agonising than a _crucio_. He was tearing through Harry's mind, ripping it apart, and watching his life unfold through his memories.

He was looking at his mind, examining his magic, and picking apart his memories. It was horrible, it was excruciating, but Harry was powerless to stop it. Throughout it all, he couldn't move, he couldn't even scream or beg for him to stop.

He could do nothing.

Nothing, but wait for it to be over, to hope that the memories Ape focused on weren't the ones he had tried his hardest to send to the back of his mind and forget about.

And then, almost as suddenly as it began, it was over. Harry was left gasping for breath, a dull ache in his head that was undoubtedly the worst headache he had ever had – but nothing compared to the ear-splitting agony he had just received. He still couldn't move, but at least that horror was finished. And he knew, even had he not been unable to move, Harry wouldn't have known what to do. He didn't know whether he would try to harm the man who had almost torn apart his mind, or thank him for finally stopping it.

The endless black eyes studied him, checking he was okay. 'I'm really sorry.' He said, his voice deep and hoarse, as if it had went for a long time unused. Harry, ever the Gryffindor, was ready to forgive him – such was the sorrow within his dark eyes.

That was until he saw the golden knife the ape was still holding.

The Ape reached out to grab Harry's wrist once more, and Harry prepared himself for the agony that was to come. But it didn't – no one ripped through his mind, no one touched his memories, or felt his magic. And the relief of this almost stopped Harry from feeling the pain as the point of the golden knife touched the thin translucent skin that almost concealed the precious arteries hidden inside.

It was with care, and a slight hesitance that the man traced the knife down Harry's already scarred arm, and Harry couldn't help but think that he preferred Wormtail's method – quick, fast and to the point. But Ape was drawing it out, almost as if he was trying to give Harry time to prepare him for the pain, but there was also a slight reverence in the way he looked at Harry – a reverence which scared him more than anything that had happened so far.

Harry wondered what it was about him that attracted people to slit his wrists. Last time it was Wormtail, and ironically on his other arm, leaving a blank canvas for Ape. Vaguely, through his pain muddled mind, he wondered if he should just wear a sign around his neck advertising free blood for all enemies. Then again, he'd probably be bled dry – everyone in the wizarding world hated him. The boy who lived sighed – he'd never be able to wear a short sleeved shirt again without people thinking he was suicidal.

If he survived …

With one last searching look into Harry's eyes, Ape thrust the knife into Harry's wrist. Harry could feel the pain, the dreadful feeling of his own blood pouring from his wrist as Ape plunged the knife in deeper. He tried to scream, he tried to cry - to do something! - But whatever Ape had done to him, there was nothing he could do.

He could smell the nauseating copper of his blood as Ape slid the knife up his arm, tearing the pale unmarked skin into uneven jagged halves. And he could feel himself wishing it would stop as he felt himself grow weaker and weaker. Perhaps it was a good thing Ape cast this spell on him, for Harry was sure, he would be begging for Ape to stop if he could speak. And Harry would sooner die than beg.

Harry was sure it only went on for a few seconds, but each moment was agony. Each second felt like years of torture and pain. No matter how hard he tried to detach himself from the pain, he couldn't. He could each jerk of Ape's wrist as he removed the knife from Harry's arm. And no matter how powerful Ape's spell had been, it held no match for the agonized scream which ripped from Harry's throat.

Barely thinking as the blood continued to pulse out from his arm, Harry saw through eyes glazed with unshed tears as Ape withdrew a tiny clear vial which he promptly enlarged. The knife was gone, but Harry wasn't sure which was the greater evil as Ape held the vial to his arm. Harry watched, unable to look away, as the vial turned crimson, and filled with his blood.

Harry tried to get away, to flinch back, but Ape took advantage of his weakened state. Swinging one hairy arm to grab Harry's shoulder in case he managed to escape – which Harry decided was quite frankly impossible – he continued to fill the vial with the crimson river that gushed out of his arm.

Harry watched, feeling faint as Ape finally removed the vial from his arm and corked it. With large, callused hands, Ape applied pressure Harry's arm. Once the bleeding had slowed, he used one hand to rumble in his cloak to pull out three vials; one purple, one black and one pink, and a plaster.

Almost absent-mindedly, Harry noted it was almost like he knew Harry was going to knock at the door that night. He knew his name, his blood status … which would mean he opened the door with the intent, and the tools to harm him. Lovely.

He watched through blurred eyes as Ape sprinkled the pink powder along his wrist, and almost instantly the pain subsided, just as the smell of roses reached his nose. The purple vial opened, and Ape poured the whole vial along the wound. Immediately, the wound began to clot, and the smell of lavender hung in the air as Ape finally sprinkled the black powder along the bandage and placed it onto Harry's arm.

Harry felt faint as Ape stood up, and used his inky black eyes to stare into Harry's glazed sick gaze. Noticing how Harry swayed on his feet, Ape swiftly picked him up into a fireman's lift, and entered the cathedral.

He could have sworn, he could feel cool lips brushing his hair. 'Sorry … I'm so sorry.'

Looking back, Harry Potter would blush when he thought of this moment, and would argue - getting very flustered as questions were raised about his manhood - that it was not his fault. Firstly, he had lost a lot of blood. And secondly who in their right mind would then turn said person - who was already close to passing out - upside down?

So it really was not his fault that he, well ... fainted.

* * *

><p>'He's waking up.' A musical voice sounded in his ear. 'His breathing is quickening.'<p>

'Give the princess a round of applause,' a man's voice growled.

'Blárvéurr.' She apprehended softly. 'You must remember what it was like to be human, no?'

Harry Potter sighed contentedly. He felt brilliant - like he could do anything!

Unlike his aching sore body from before, he felt healthy and refreshed. He wasn't hurt, though why Harry had no idea. He was on a bed! Perhaps Aunt Marge had finally had enough of his screaming during the night when he had nightmares, and had moved him into the spare bedroom? It would make sense - it had four walls and a door, which would probably soundproof him from the rest of the house. And, he knew - from his longing looks into the room as he made his way downstairs to the floor of the utility room - that there was a nice, soft bed in there.

Although, Harry shuddered slightly, it was a pink bed. _Pink_. Voldemort, Harry could handle without a second thought, but when it came to questions about his manhood...

Harry grimaced, imagining Dudley's taunts now. There would be a whole new angle Dudley had to insult him, a whole new range of insults.

He frowned slightly, as he heard hushed murmurs from above him. Probably Uncle Vernon and the rest of his 'family'. After all, that nightmare from last night was worse than usual. But different … it was unusual that Harry wouldn't have a nightmare about Cedric, about that day … and if it wasn't about Cedric, it was about that corridor, and lay beyond the door. Sometimes, Harry would dream of Voldemort. But only very rarely.

But last night was different. It was so vivid, so real that it felt like it wasn't just a dream. He could remember feeling the shivers on his back, and the hairs rising on the back of his neck so clearly. He could remember inhaling the cold breeze through his nose, and smelling the expensive perfume of Aunt Marge's friends. Harry remembered the feeling of the Holy Water splashing on his head as the priest threw it at the congregation via a strange golden stick … he remembered the horrible taste of Communion, and how comfortable the wooden bench had been to lie upon.

But most of all he remembered that cathedral. With its menacing beauty, and timeless enchantment. His confusion when only he could see it and the feeling when it dawned upon him why. Harry remembered his walk up to the house, the feeling of dread as he knocked seven times onto the door and waited. The sound of the dead-bolt being lifted and those amazingly endless black eyes …

And then that spell, the one that was so powerful it kept him immobile. The one that Ape cast wandlessly, but it was more effective than any stunner either Voldemort or Dumbledore could do. And the pain. Yes, Harry could remember the pain. He could remember his entire life flashing behind his eyes, and a pain so agonising he thought he would pass out. He remembered the heart wrenching scream that tore from his lips as Ape lifted the knife from his arm, so powerful that he broke Ape's spell. He remembered vial, and how hard he had to try to not cry. Harry remembered feeling faint, feeling like air. The last thing Harry remembered was noticing Ape's nose was crooked, as if it had been broken.

And then Harry couldn't remember anything.

Harry honestly didn't know how he could have dreamed such a thing, let alone felt it with such intensity. Who was that man? And how the hell had his sub-conscious dreamt up the Muggle church, and the gothic cathedral?

It had felt so real, and it had been so vivid that for a split second Harry wondered if it had actually happened. He could remember the day before when Aunt Marge had told him he would be joining them for the Christmas mass. And in his dream, Harry had gone to a Muggle mass. Could it be that what he dreamt had indeed occurred?

But no.

Harry Potter felt his imagination had come a long way since the days he spent in the cupboard of the Dursley's house. He believed in magic, in Hogwarts, in a stone which could turn metal to gold and the drinker immortal. He had witnessed a talking hat, a basilisk, and he had talked to snakes. Harry had written in a diary to a memory of the greatest wizard of all time, Lord Voldemort, and he had battled hundreds of Dementors with a single spell. Harry had ridden a Hippogryff, become the youngest Seeker in a century, and travelled back in time to save his Godfather. He had witnessed a werewolf turn, Lord Voldemort feed from a unicorn and he had ridden a centaur. Harry had beaten a dragon, swam with mermaids and defeated Lord Voldemort four times.

But this was something he could not accept, could not believe. For starters, mass was meant to be special, an amazing experience. Yet that priest had droned on and on for an incredibly long hour of his life which Harry could never get back.

And a cathedral which only he could see? Not Petunia, not anyone? Only him? Stairs flecked with blood? A golden statue of Jesus on the Crucifix which seemed to watch his every move? Not to mention the ape of a man who entered the door, with the endless black eyes, and mad red hair. A man who then proceeded to rhyme off facts about Harry's life, read his _mind_, _slit_ his wrist, and then collected the blood? Before _healing_ him?

No. It simply could not be true. Yet he couldn't stop shaking fingers from reaching out to feel his arm. Feeling silly, Harry stopped himself. Yet he couldn't resist the urge to see, once and for all, whether or not it was true. Summoning up as much courage as he could muster, Harry extended trembling fingers to prove once and for all it was a dream.

About an inch above his arm, his fingers touched a thick pulsating bump. Harry flinched, feeling the pain that touch caused his all the way down to his toes. He could feel his eyes watering as he traced the line all the way from his wrist to his elbow, just like where Ape had cut him, in his dream.

Harry Potter's eyes flew open, forcing himself to sit upright despite the unbearable agony shooting up his arm. He gasped, the pain was unbearable. With a shaking hand, he lifted his left arm with his right and forced himself to look at it.

What he saw nearly made him scream. A thick jagged line, swollen and coloured angry red, pulsated out of his arm. It was looked so deformed, so opposite to the pale white skin beside it, that it looked like something out of a horror movie. Mutant, disgusting, like a terrible flesh eating disease. It was about an inch wide, but it swelled up until it sat at least two inches above his skin. Harry could feel bile rising in his throat as he watched the wound rise and fall with each beat of his heart.

So the dream was real then.

Harry could feel his heart racing from that single touch of his wound, and the gasp that was his breath from the pain. Trying to dull the terrible aching in his arm, and the shock that was the realisation that there really was a mad man running around taking his blood, Harry looked around at his surroundings.

With a shaky, choking breath Harry looked around, well, wherever he was. It seemed to be a long empty hall, about the same size as the Great Hall in Hogwarts, if not bigger. Certainly, it was older and infinitely grander. The floor was wooden, that dark wood that was almost black. It practically spoke of ages long forgotten, and Harry was sure it had many stories to tell. The walls were grey, and furnished with portraits of people long gone. A thick layer of dust lay on the rim of each portrait, which only added to the mystique of the large hall. The furnishings and furniture were few and far apart, but those there spoke of years of travel and mystique.

Overall, the hall was almost empty, and so dim that Harry could hardly see. Long thick black curtains blocked out any light that the tall arched windows would have brought in. Only candles, place periodically around the hall, lit the room, shrouding everything in dim grey shadows. For all the space the hall offered, it was an almost unoccupied space, but filled with the dark beauty that the cathedral's outside promised.

He himself was sitting on a large four poster bed in the very centre of the room, which wasn't slightly creepy at all. And staring intently into his face was Ape, and a woman. Harry felt like he was in one of those movies where the prisoner woke up and the doctor and his nurse started doing crazy experiments on him. He really hoped that wasn't the case …

Ape was very tall; almost as tall as the gigantic door that led … well Harry didn't know where it led. But he was probably the tallest man Harry had seen in his life, not including Hagrid of course.

Considering that, the female who stood to Ape's right only reached Ape's shoulder, but a considerable height it was. She was pale, with dark hair and crimson lips. Her eyes, an amazing honey colour, held the same depth as Ape's. They were as entrancing as hell, and it took all of Harry's strength to tear his eyes from her intense gaze. Fitting black robes hugged her thin frame. Her body gave the impression of being fragile, but Harry had a sneak suspicion she was anything but. She was truly beautiful, in every sense of the word. Undoubtedly the most beautiful person he had ever seen – and that include Mrs Zabini.

Both her and Ape were staring at him, their eyes watching his every movement and their expressions like a cat watching a mouse. It was rather unnerving, and Harry self-consciously pulled his blankets further around his form. He really did not like the feeling that they had probably been doing the same while he slept. And Harry, knowing he talked in his sleep, felt his cheeks reddening as he wondered what they may have heard. Harry sneaked another glance up, before looking down again almost immediately.

They were still staring.

A rather awkward silence ensued, during which time he took many secret glances at the two cats, while they stared openly at him. For a while thought they might be looking at his scar so Harry pretended to scratch his head and 'accidently' brushed his hair over his scar so the Lightning Bolt was hidden.

It turned out they weren't interested in the scar.

They continued staring while he thought of other ideas. He bit his lip, he closed his eyes, and he hid the arm Ape had butchered underneath his blankets. None of it worked; they continued to stare - unblinkingly, he might add - at Harry Potter.

At the start Harry thought about saying something. Anything had to be better this awkward staring. Who knew what their plans were. There had been a moment when Harry's lips had parted and he was about to say 'Hey'.

Then he remembered the blood on the stairs.

What do you say to someone who lives in a cathedral warded off from Muggles? Someone who put you into a spell to conveniently stop you from moving while they slit you _wrist? _That same someone who they proceeded to collect your blood, knock you out and put you in a freaking _bed_? Even Lord Voldemort would shut up for a minute if he was in Harry's … situation.

If you were to ask any elderly man had they ever had a moment in their life when time simply froze, had they ever had a conversation, or a moment to themselves simply unbound by the constraints of time? Were you to ask Harry Potter what his moment was, the answer would be when he had just met Blárvéurr and Dorcha Grian. Their staring contest simply seemed to go on for weeks on end, uninterrupted by anything but the blink of an eye.

And, it could have gone longer, Harry would recount with dread. If not for the golden cauldron located in the far right hand corner of the room, and with Dorcha Grian's intense interest in Harry, it probably would have. However, the battling of wills broke as a frothy golden liquid rose from the cauldron, and started dripping onto the wooden floor.

It was Blárvéurr who first noticed it, with a scowl on his face that could rival Snape's.

'It is ready.' His face was serious, and tense. He looked worried, and his eyes searched Harry's face one more time, before repeating, 'It is ready.'

He stalked over to the cauldron, his black cloak billowing behind him. Just like Snape's did when he was angry – and around Harry, that was a lot. Studying him again, Harry could see the likeness between their manners. Not to mention Blárvéurr had greasy hair too. Huh. For all Harry knew, they could have been brothers.

In the long walk between the bed and the cauldron, Blárvéurr summoned – both wandlessly and wordlessly, Harry felt the need to point out - a pair of thick dragons-hide gloves which he hurriedly put on. A small smile spread across his face as he looked down at the golden froth, at Harry, and then back to the froth.

But with a disbelieving frown, he donned a look of intense concentration and continued to do a series of spells upon the potion. At least, Harry assumed Blárvéurr's frantic hand movements, and muttered words were spells. Maybe the man had just gone crazy.

Satisfied that his mumbo-jumbo had worked, Blárvéurr turned to look at Harry. A smile had spread across his wrinkled face, making his eyes only more enchanting. 'Come look.' He smiled, beckoning at Dorcha Grian with one of his gloved hands.

Harry couldn't help but feel a little left out at their little happy party over by the cauldron. Indeed, he felt a little like a third wheel.

Dorcha Grian looked positively beautiful when she smiled, Harry marvelled. Her pale cheeks dimpled, and plumped – her serious face turned child-like. She walked to the cauldron, and peered into it for a moment. What she saw made her reel back in surprise, and she beamed for a moment before she too doubted herself. Dorcha Grian bit her lip as she looked back into the cauldron once more.

'It is golden!' She beamed, pearly white teeth flashing in the dark room. 'Blárvéurr, it is golden!' Her pale arms embraced him in a hug, which Blárvéurr stiffly returned.

Harry scratched his head uncomfortably, feeling like a terrible intruder on their happiness. But then, he really did want to know why they were so happy. And why they had decided to kidnap him. That would be nice too.

'Um, excuse me.' Harry said quietly, feeling a sense of déjà vu when he remembered they were the exact words he had spoken to Ollivander after he had received his wand. 'But … why are you so happy that it's golden?' He felt a little stupid saying the words, especially when Blárvéurr rolled his eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Even the sentence sounded like something a nursery student would say.

Dorcha Grian turned her smile to him, her honey eyes crinkling in happiness. 'It means,' she said in a slightly accented voice, 'that you are Him.'

The way she said her words, the way she spoke them; as if she was imparting a heavy burden upon his shoulders made it clear that whatever she was saying was important. That whoever Dorcha Grian thought he was an important person. And it was as he stared in her golden eyes, looking a shade lighter in her happiness, and Blárvéurr's expectant gaze, that he sighed.

Just another couple of people thinking he was the bloody Boy Who Lived. People who would put their hopes, their dreams and their lives on his shoulders, and blame him if something was to go wrong. He had thought they were different, that they might look past his envied title, for they didn't seem to have cared before when Blárvéurr was hurting him. But they were the same, exactly the same as the Weasleys and Hermione and the rest, with one difference. Clearly they hadn't picked up a bloody newspaper in a while, or they'd know that the current public opinion of him was certainly not this, this …. _Happiness_!

Harry took a deep breath, in through his nose, and out through his mouth. For a moment, he had hoped he might be treated normally, like a normal child. But they were still staring at him, they were still looking expectantly at him – as if he would perform a bloody trick right there on the spot. And maybe, if this was last year, or even last month, he would.

But not now. The public had changed him – made him understand what it meant to be hated, to be an outsider. They asked him to be the centre of attention, then they told him he was a nobody; a lunatic.

He had tried to bear with it in fourth year, he had tried to stop it from changing him. And it had been okay then because he still had Hermione. But not this year. This year there was no one, no one who cared about how he felt, or worried if he would come home okay. And was something he had never experienced – even Petunia had worried if he would come home in one piece, even if it was only because she didn't want to pay the medical bills, or explain his death or injuries to the neighbours.

That Harry Potter, the one who heeded what people thought, and followed rules without question was gone. Dead. They had done this to them, created a Harry Potter who was a fragment of what he had been. He would take no blame for it. And he would give them no pity.

'You mean the Boy Who Lived.' It was a statement; not a question. He let out one shaky breath, not allowing himself to look them in the eye; for them to see his disappointment.

'No,' Blárvéurr answered, 'she means the Necromancer.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Shadowed Pain**

**Summary: **He never meant for them to hate him, to curse his name, and the day he was born. They turned on him first, and he did what he had to do. Harry Potter never meant to fall in love, or to become the most feared necromancer. They made him what he was.

**Background**: On the third task of the Triwizard tournament, Harry Potter appeared in front of the masses bloodied, crying, and holding the body of Hufflepuff's star Seeker. Barty Crouch Junior followed his Master's instructions, and did not make any contact with the boy, causing Dumbledore to have no proof other than Harry's word that the Dark Lord had returned. After months of no activity, Dumbledore decided that Lily and James' precious child was merely causing trouble for attention. This announcement sparked a campaign of hate towards the Boy Who Lived, and caused everyone, even his closest friends, to hate him for trying to disturb the peace they had fought so hard for.

**Timing:** The story starts in Harry's fifth year, on Christmas Day. For the purpose of the story, Marcus is only a year above him.

**Disclaimer**: I'm clearly not JK Rowling, and I take no credit for the world she has made, nor any characters originally created by her, only for the few I have created by myself.

**AN**: **Please note that for most of this chapter, Harry is in shock. For this reason, some of the things he focuses on are … unusual.**

**Please read and review :) All are appreciated, especially construction criticism. **

* * *

><p><em>Necromancy is a claimed form of Black magic in which the practitioner communicates, and controls spirits. Their precise gifts are unknown, but it is rumored they can immortalize armies, sense a deceased's past, and perform effortless wandless magic. It does not have to be said to stay away from them at all costs – for so blended into the other realms, they have little humanity left.<em>

_*** Bathilda Bagshot ***_

Harry Potter licked his dry lips nervously, as Dorcha Grian handed him a cup of hot chocolate. It was a rather Muggle drink for people who seemed so mysterious, so inanely wizard. And for the life of him, Harry couldn't imagine seeing Blárvéurr down in Tescos doing his weekly shopping, let alone putting hot chocolate into his trolley.

Uncertainly, Harry glanced down at the frothy brown milk, pink blobs of melting marshmallows floating to the top. He had never really drunk hot chocolate before, though he had made it for Dudley plenty of times. It was a luxury he had never needed, nor wanted, and in all his time at Hogwarts, he had been too busy battling basilisks, and running away from werewolves, to spare a moment for the drink.

Still, it seemed very strange to imagine someone like Blárvéurr having hot chocolate in his home, and that he even had marshmallows? And _pink_ marshmallows to boot?

For a few moments, Harry wondered if he was dreaming. Sitting there, drinking hot chocolate at a kitchen table with two strangers, one of whom just slit his wrist and declared him a necromancer? And yet, the thing shocking Harry was the fact the duo were in possession of marshmallows. If there was ever a reason to question his sanity …

Absentmindedly, Harry wondered whether the two of them had slipped him something while he was asleep. He wasn't usually this … Harry sighed; he was being stupid, and judging people who he hardly knew. It was just - Blárvéurr … and marshmallows …

No … Harry mulled it over thoughtfully as he studied his hot chocolate. It was probably Dorcha Grian's doing, though Harry doubted she was the type of girl who was into bunnies and fairy tales, like the ones at Hogwarts were.

Idiots, the lot of them.. It was just, they were so … centred around guys, like everything they did – every movement they made, every word they said - were done with the sole wish to attract whatever guy they wanted that week.

Harry could _never_ understand any of their conversations, the majority of which consisted of 'and he said … and I was like … and then he said something else, but his lips were just so _per_-etty, I couldn't concentrate … _oh_, do you think he likes me? _Do_ you?' It hadn't helped that when he was in the public's favour, he had stumbled across a lot of those conversations. It had been … awkward to say the least, and Ron hadn't helped by incessantly bullying him into talking to groups of girls, so Ron could talk to them too.

It was nice anyway – the warmth of the hot chocolate. He didn't think he would drink it – Mad Eyed Moody had drilled into him never to eat anything that he hadn't made himself. The photographs Moody had used to demonstrate what could happen had been quite effective.

Not to mention he was in a house with two crazy people. A _necromancer_? He almost started laughing again, but as Harry remember their glares the last time, he covered it up with a quick cough. Apparently neither of them were the laughing type.

But if he was to trust his instincts – and they were usually right – and assume they were both necromancers, he supposed he couldn't really blame them. Necromancy was … well, _Dark_. Dark enough to be categorised as Black.

He had heard of them before of course – the elite group of magicians who could converse with the dead, travel into other planes of consciousness … Little was known about them, only that their skills were rumoured to be numerable and vast. But enough was understood to know that they were to be feared above all, if what was whispered was to believed.

It was the whispered power, the one that had never been confirmed, but was rumoured to be true, that had convinced Voldemort to enlist their help in the last war. But despite months of planning, despite countless ambassadors sent to cloaked figures and priceless gifts bestowed, it was for naught. All Voldemort got for his efforts was a handful of the weakest dementors.

Hermione had been fascinated by them in second year, and had spent almost an entire term scrounging up books about the mysterious cult. Needless to say, the search had been almost futile – apart from a few passages in some very questionable books, nothing was found. Little was known about necromancers, whose abilities remained shrouded in myths and lies to this day.

Despite her long hours of searching, and her determination to get to the bottom of necromancy no matter what, all Hermione had ever found out about was one necromancer, quite by accident, from a Muggle book of myths. **1**

_Skuld was a princess, a half elven princess. And one day, after months of planning and careful study in the Forbidden Arts, she led an army out onto the battlefield. Her army was losing, man after man was slaughtered mercilessly under the opposing army's wands, and she realised there was only one thing she could do to get the win her soldiers had sacrificed their lives for. _

_So she took the heart from her beloved, and cast a spell so powerful that all the dead came back to life, albeit less than a shadow of who they once were, and with powers so unearthly, Skuld wondered at what she had created._

_No matter how hard the opposing army's magician's tried to reverse the spell, no matter what spells they threw against the Darkest of Creatures, nothing worked. They could only watch as their army was quickly - almost effortlessly- defeated could only watch as the creatures seem to grow stronger with each life they took. _

_They could only scream as their worst memories played before their eyes, and gasp as their soul was taken._

_And so, Skuld became Queen of Denmark, with an army so powerful that no one dared to challenge her. She was happy – she was Queen, and she hadn't lost a single soldier. Yet, she could not help but realise that the men she had once been friends with were not there anymore. And so she wept, every night she wept. _

_But two brothers were plotting revenge; revenge for a brother Skuld had personally killed. One night, when her defences were low, and her Darkest of Creatures were patrolling the country, they snuck up on her. They bound her with chains that they had enchanted to stop all magic, even Forbidden Magic, and gruesomely tortured her to death._

_With revenge carried out, and the throne of the kingdom rightfully theirs, the two brothers were happy. Everything was perfect, except for the ghostly army that stalked their kingdom, uncontrolled without a master._

_It is said that to this day, they walk freely, unable to be chained because no necromancer but one of Skuld's ability could release them into the afterlife. And until they find a new master, one that will free them from their binds to Skuld, they will haunt the earth searching for the descendants of the two brothers, and destroying them because of what they did to their master._

It had been the largest, and certainly the most disturbing piece of information Hermione had found on necromancy, and for weeks she had been unbearably frustrated that the only thing she had been able to find on necromancy had come from a Muggle book.

It wasn't that Hermione was interested in Necromancy, if anything she was disturbed by it, but Professor Lockhart had mentioned it in class one day – or perhaps the lack of it – and Hermione had decided to research it.

Upon finding nothing – literally – she had become obsessed with it, determined that the Hogwarts library would not fail her. Yet, despite the hours she spent prowling the library with a scowl on her face, and blackening circles under her eyes, she had found nothing. Even when she borrowed Harry's invisibility cloak so she could visit the restricted section, she found little other than the odd sentence or two, and only in the most questionable books.

Still, if that was all Hermione had found out, then Harry doubted anyone, even Reeta Skeeter, could dig up anything else. Harry was sure the story was wrapped up in countless lies, and exaggerations from centuries gone by. But if was true … then he didn't exactly feel comfortable sitting across the table from two necromancers – one of whom had already harmed him – that could each have their own army of the 'Darkest of Creatures'.

But there had been one other thing Hermione had dug up, though Harry didn't know where she had heard it from – God knows she had exhausted the library, and harassed Madam Prince to the point the elderly grimaced and muttered violently under her breath when Hermione entered the library, and looked for any excuse to remove her from it.

It was well into their third year, Hermione's obsession having carried through the summer holidays and straight through the first term. It had gotten quite tiresome, so much so that in their fourth year SPEW had been quite welcome.

All Harry knew was that when Hermione had left for the Easter holidays she was fine, if slightly exasperated from her search, and when she came back she looked like hell frozen over. Her hair was greasy, and untamed, her eyes were wild with large black circles under them, and her skin was white as a ghost.

Whatever it was she had found out, Hermione had never told Harry or Ron, no matter what persuasion techniques they used.

They had tried guilting her, reminding her off all the times they'd trusted her with which girl Ron fancied that month, and all the adventures they'd been through together – if they could save the philosophers stone from Voldemort, surely they could help Hermione with whatever it was that was bothering her.

They had tried being logical – a problem shared is a problem halved, Harry could distinctly remember saying, before Ron punched him on the arm for being 'gay'.

And they had tried bribing her, with promises to buy her butterbeer for a month, to actually do their homework, and not just copy her's, and they even promised, when they were getting desperate, to do _Hermione's_ homework.

But other than some scathing replies, they got nothing out of the tight lipped Gryffindor. All she would say was 'People who dig around in necromancy end up dead. Or worse …' It was her only explanation for her insane behaviour, that had raised the concerns of more than just Ron and Harry. But after making them swear not to research necromancy again, she said nothing, remaining tight lipped on the topic.

Whatever it was that had bothered her, she had refused to go to bed for weeks, remaining bolt upright in the common room, clutching her wand. . That had been in third year, yet Hermione still clamed up and went pale with fear when she was asked about what had bothered her. So, Harry and Ron learnt to shut up about anything involving necromancy, and Harry had quelled voicing any interest in the subject.

A loud grunt brought Harry's attention back to the table, and he looked around dazedly at Dorcha Grian's smiling face, and Blárvéurr's scowling one. Looking at the two of them, Harry realised how ridiculous the situation was, and how insane he was for even thinking the two might actually be necromancers. After all, what were the chances he would just happen to stumble upon what he assumed was a Necromancer's Guild?

Harry wasn't even sure if he believed in necromancy – how could there be an evil greater than Voldemort's? No, it couldn't be possible. And besides, even Dumbledore had told him there was no way to bring someone back from the dead.

Harry looked at Dorcha Grian, who was sitting across from his at the ancient oak table. Stroking the table with an absent-minded finger, he shook his head. 'You're insane.'

Dorcha Grian shrugged, making it look like the most graceful movement in world. 'You wouldn't be the first to say it.' Her crimson lips quirked up to a smile as Blárvéurr agreed with a grunt. 'But you have been the first in a while.' Her honey eyes considered him, 'May I ask why you believe so?'

'Necromancy is a myth.'

A corner of Blárvéurr's scowl moved upwards, in what Harry guessed was meant to be a smile, but looked more like a grimace. 'What is it they teach you at school nowadays, Child? Do they teach you nothing but foolish wand-waving?' A short bark erupted from his scarred mouth.

Uncomfortably, Harry realised Blárvéurr was trying to make a joke to ease the tension between them, though for the life of him, Harry didn't know what the punch-line was. It wasn't really the type of behaviour Harry had expected from him, but then Blárvéurr seemed quite unskilled when it came to socialising, and he had proved quite prone to mood swings. Harry wouldn't say he was a sentimental guy, but he had to say he would appreciate an apology …

Harry grimaced up at the man who still proved to be taller than him, even when they were sitting down. 'We do History of Magic too,' Harry bit his lip, thinking of the monotone drone that had lulled even the most attentive student to sleep. 'And Care of Magical Creature.' Although, now that Umbridge was breathing down his neck, Hagrid wasn't much better …

'Both of which are taught by abysmal teachers,' Dorcha Grian put in softly. 'At least according to the ghosts passing through, and they are the only source of news for us.'

Harry frowned, wondering when the pair had last left the cathedral they seemed to live in; though he had seen no personal touches or belongings in the few rooms he had been in. Everything was dull, dark and depressing, and it was just as intimidating as the outside suggested.

Harry frowned, remembering the statue of Jesus whose golden eyes had watched him all day, and the Muggles who hadn't even noticed him, or the cathedral. Harry frowned, wondering whether the building was shielded not only from Muggles, but from wizards too – it would certainly explain their lack of news. The fact that they seemed to rely on ghosts for information was … worrying.

He grimaced, wondering if the only reason they had allowed him in was because they believed him to be some kind of insanely powerful necromancer. Harry honestly didn't know why, but the fact that they were basing a lot of their reasoning on the fact that a _potion_ turned golden didn't really give their case much credibility.

Smirking, Harry couldn't help but think that Snape would probably deck him for even thinking badly of his beloved subject. Greasy haired scumbag.

'Hush, Dorcha,' Blárvéurr narrowed his dark eyes at her, his tone showing clear authority. 'He has yet to understand even the _basics_ of Undead society yet.' She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed with his show of authority.

'Why do you think I'm a necromancer?' Harry cut in quickly when Dorcha Grian opened her mouth to retaliate. He didn't want to be in the middle of an argument between the two, especially not when he was still unclear as to what exactly their relationshipwas.

'You're Harry Potter. We have Heard about you, Child.' Dorcha Grian's eyes stared into his own, as if she could see into his soul.

'So, you think because I'm Harry Potter – because I defeated Voldemort - you think I'm a necromancer because of _that_?' His voice was scathing, and filled with mockery.

Blárvéurr's eyes narrowed at the boy in front of him. 'We know you're a Necromancer. And we know this because you are Harry Potter-' His eyes narrowed further as Harry tried to interrupt him, and the teenager flinched back, '_Not_ the Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. The Harry Potter who's fate was prophesized at the Beginning.' **2**

His dark eyes studied the Gryffindor in front of him, 'And we know – for certain – that you are this Child.'

Harry's emerald eyes gleamed, 'What does my prophecy say?'

'What is in that prophecy does not concern you – only your choices, made without that burden on your shoulders, will result in what the Fates wish for. I have been around for centuries,' his hooded black glazed, as if recalling something, 'and even I have not heard what is in my own prophecy. Nor has Dorcha Grian.'

Harry looked up at Blárvéurr – a considerable effort, given the giant of a man he was – and raised an eyebrow. 'You're saying that you are both necromancers.' They nodded simultaneously. 'How do I know you're telling the truth?'

'Tell me, Potter, you have spent a great deal of time around Dumbledore and Voldemort; reported to be the two greatest wizards of your time. Have you ever seen either of them perform magic wandlessly, and wordlessly, with a single thought? Have you ever seen anyone cast magic as effortlessly as Blárvéurr has? Even in the few hours you have known him, surely you did not think a man of such power could be a mere wizard?'

Harry Potter gulped, for the gaze with which Dorcha Grian fixed upon him was one he would not wish upon his worst enemy. Her honey eyes made him feel so dreadfully insignificant, so unimportant and worthless. She made him feel guilty for not realising Blárvéurr was more than a mere extremely talented wizard.

'Whether you did, or did not, you must realise,' she fixed him with her gaze, 'you are a Necromancer. Your skills will begin to manifest some time before you sixteenth birthday – between a couple of days, if you are to be a weak necromancer, or in some very special cases several months.'

Harry nodded, not really taking anything in. It was too much. This was meant to be his break, his time away from the chaos that was his world. Hogwarts was crazy – whether they hated him, or they loved him, he was always important. But at the Dursleys, he was nothing. And that was what this was meant to be about, a chance to be nothing. To not be the saviour of the wizarding world, or the Boy Who Lied. Nothing.

But Fate had never been kind. Not to Harry Potter.

He was pretty sure they were both crazy, coo-coo, insane, one fry away from a Happy Meal …

But at the same time, there was a part of him, a tiny minute part of him – but a part of him all the same – that was certain they were telling the truth. How else could Blárvéurr perform such incredible magic, magic Harry hadn't even heard of? How else did harry explain the fact that they lived in a cathedral, warded off from everyone but necromancers. What else could explain their hypnotic eyes, or the fact that they moved and spoke with grace long forgotten?

So whether it was crazy or not; whether it was true or untrue, Harry listened to what they have to say. Even though some of it sounded so ridiculous that Harry was sure it was taken from some fairy-tale, he listened. Even when he was sure he had misheard, or he was delusional, he listened.

And he filed it all away for another day, figuring that if his skills really did start to manifest, if he was truly a necromancer, then he would think about it. But not until then.

So he let Blárvéurr explain to him impatiently about their lives, about their rules and regimes, he let him criticise his lack of knowledge on the sect he would soon be part of, and he let him ridicule the Purebloods that had mimicked their customs.

Then Dorcha Grian would take over, her soft musical voice a relief after Blárvéurr's harsh hoarse voice, and her gentle manner a reprieve after Blárvéurr's often violent manner. She told him about their ideals, and their beliefs, telling him of things Harry could never have imagined, but he couldn't help but believe in.

Occasionally, Blárvéurr would join in, his harsh voice contrasting with Dorcha Grian's as they bickered on topics where their belief varied, but Harry let them, feeling rather like he was watching an old married couple**.**

Harry joined in once or twice to clarify an explanation or an ideal, but he mostly stayed silent – too shocked by what they were saying to speak. For once, he just listened, even though the two seemed to bicker for hours on end about some tedious, unimportant detail in their society, Harry listened.

Because maybe one day, it would be him explaining laws and customs to a shell-shocked teenager.

It was only as Blárvéurr stood up, his sore limbs cracking from the hard oak chair, and Dorcha Grian vanished Harry's long cold untouched hot chocolate, that Harry decided to ask the one question that had been burning on his lips for the past hour.

'When will I see you again?' Harry asked, his voice light and hesitant as he looked up at Blárvéurr's dark eyes uncertainly.

He felt a small slim arm on the small of his back, guiding him towards the door. In the darkness of the hallway, all he could see were two honey eyes – bright as a cat's – staring down at him. For a moment, they flickered towards Blárvéurr, before Dorcha Grian's soft voice said, 'When the time is right, you will know to come.'

It only as Blárvéurr ushered him to the door that Harry decided to ask the one question which had been burning on his lips for the last hour. 'When will I see you again?' He asked, his voice light and hesitant.

Harry looked up at her, unsure what to make of the ominous statement. 'When the time is right?'

A long muscled arm stretched out in front of Harry to open the large oak door, and Dorcha Grian guided him outside. She placed a soft kiss on his cheek, her eyes burning with an emotion Harry couldn't describe, before she retreated back into the dark hallway.

Then a pair of dark eyes found his, and a deep baritone voice whispered, 'When there is no one left to care, the time is right.'

And the large oak door shuddered to a close.

Well, Harry grimaced as he stumbled down the marbled steps, barely glancing at the red flecks. He guessed he knew who liked to have the last word.

* * *

><p>There was very little to do in Maidstone, Harry decided, as he strolled along the streets. He was long past the centre of town, he supposed, but it was hardly as if there had been much night-life there either. There were a couple of local shops - which Harry doubted contained more than a couple of pints of out of date milk, and last week's paper – and a single empty pub with peeling letters spelling out the truly imaginative name 'Maidstone's Pub'.<p>

Still, at seven o'clock in the evening, a relatively early hour, Harry had expected to see some activity; Christmas Day or not. Perhaps a couple of families playing football on the street, a group of church carollers going from door to door, or even a family driving to a cousin's house for dinner. But Harry saw no families, no carollers spreading Christmas cheer, and not a single car had passed him.

The only people he saw were few and far between. Mostly they were dog walkers, or a harassed mother watching her children play in the park. When he smiled at them, it was extremely rare he would get one in return. True, he was wearing Dudley's old baggy clothes that _may_ have had a few specks on blood on the sleeve, but surely that didn't deserve downcast eyes and people walking faster to get away from him?

He could see now why Aunt Marge fit in so well here.

Harry shook his head, staring at the road that led out of town, and God knows where. He had no idea of what to do, of what to make of the crazy, bizarre day he had just had – and it wasn't even over yet.

He didn't know what to do.

'When there is no one left to care' Blárvéurr had said – but there was no one left to care _now_! Harry wouldn't have even been there if there was someone to care – he would have been at Hogwarts cracking Christmas Crackers with Professor Dumbledore, or at the Weasleys sipping butterbeer and trying to avoid Mrs Weasley's mollycoddling.

Grimacing, Harry continued walking, his pace quickening with anger. It didn't matter where he went – he was in a Muggle community for God's sake, no matter what the two 'necromancers' had said to try to convince him otherwise. Besides, Harry shook his head, nobody would care what happened to him, not now – now that he was the 'Boy who Lied'.

It was ridiculous, completely _fucking_ ridiculous the way the wizarding world expected him to save them all, despite the way they had treated him. Bullying him, slamming his name, accusing him of killing his own parents, of being the next Voldemort …

How could it get any worse – how could more people _not_ care? He was already alone, already hated – there was no way it _could_ get worse.

Then again, maybe next year, he'd be back to the 'Golden Boy' again. He grimaced, remembering the prophecy Blárvéurr had mentioned. The 'Chosen One' sounded fitting, exactly the type of bile the Daily Prophet would likely come up with.

He hated it all – the fame, the attention, the _mindless_ attention. Whatever the Daily Prophet said, whether it was good or bad was what the masses believed. It was horrible, yet he was powerless to stop it.

Glancing around at the dark, empty road, Harry couldn't help but remember what Sirius had said when he had just gotten out of Azkaban. His starved body, and haunted grey eyes had looked around wildly, before settling on Harry and remarking how old he was, how like his father he looked. And Sirius had looked at Hogwarts, had looked at his arm branded with the number 6078, **3 **and his gaunt wrinkled body, before exclaiming 'Every time I find the meaning of life, they change it.' **4** And he had chuckled, as if it was a brilliant joke, and then he had laughed – manically - as if it was the most hilarious thing he had ever said, and then he was heaving great hysterical cries, with tears dripping into his long untamed beard.

Bitterly, Harry remembered the Sirius Black he had rescued from the Dementors. That was his real Godfather – not the one who hid away in Grimmauld Place using jokes as a mask for how he really felt. That had been the guy who had promised he would look after Harry, who had promised to free him from the Dursleys – before reality had kicked in.

Harry flinched sharply, groaning as a black car sped past him and splattered mud all over Dudley's clothes. And he had thought they couldn't get any worse …

Cold, wet and shivering, Harry continued walking down the deserted street; his shoulders stooped a little lower than they had once been, and his eyes staring at the ground, looking for all the world, a defeated man.

There was a nought in his throat as he continued walking, and he could feel the prickle of tears forming in his once brilliant emerald eyes. He didn't look up when the sky began weeping with him, but continued trudging forward – determined to find a restaurant that was still open, or even a sheltered bench on the deserted street.

Anything was better than admitting defeat, and returning to the Dursley's earlier than expected, or wanted.

His shoulders hunched, Harry miserably clutched the thread-care cotton fleece around his thin form, desperate for the slightest bit of heat. He ignored his ears reddening from the chill of the night, and his glasses blurring from the rainwater.

But the freezing water than continuously pelted against his body was one thing he couldn't ignore. His fingers, his nose, his lips – all had gone painfully cold. Harry was sure he was going to get frostbite.

Carefully, his movements slow, he tucked his fists under his arm-pits, and pulled up his fleece to cover his nose. His shoulders shook as he half laughed, half sobbed at how pathetic he must look – the Boy Who Lived wondering up a Muggle road on Christmas day, with nowhere to go and no one who cared enough to check he was okay.

Glumly, he pictured Rita Skeeter's article in the Daily Prophet tomorrow – featuring a blown up picture of him in Dudley's hoodie stained with mud and blood, his shoulders hunched and dull emerald eyes downcast. With a grim expression crossing his face, he realised it wouldn't have been the worst thing she had written about him.

A long bitter laugh rose from his throat, sounding slightly maniacal. 'For the greater good,' Dumbledore had told him, time and time again.

Had the old man ever even cared? Fifteen years – _fifteen_ years, he'd been at the Dursleys, and no had ever said a word about the abuse and neglect he had suffered at their hands. Not one word.

Had he honestly been so stupid as to believe that Dumbledore – the defeater of Grindelwald, the only man Voldemort had ever feared – had never noticed? That the most powerful wizard in the world, who was immeasurably intelligent and perceptive, had never noticed the most important pawn in his plans was being abused?

Harry knew the answer to his question the moment before the sky turned purple, and the rumble of thunder roared through the sky. 'For the greater good' indeed, Harry laughed again, bitter and mad with his grief.

The silence the thunder had left in its wake was replaced with the thud of rain against the pavement, smacking harder and harder with each second that past. Dark fog rose, obscuring any land which lay more than a few feet in front of him.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the night sky for a moment, before it was gone, its fleeting presence forgotten. And Harry Potter couldn't help but laugh once more; at the fact his scar was a lightning bolt.

And he realised that until there was bad in the horizon, until there was definite proof written in the stars, no one was going to believe him about Voldemort's return. Until then there would be no one to turn to, no one to rely on. But when they did realise, Harry knew he wasn't going to be there to save them.

Not this time.

Time blended together as Harry walked alone that night, watching the sky getting darker and darker, the murky fog getting thicker and thicker, and what was left of the Boy Who Lived finally died.

* * *

><p><strong>1: <strong>Skuld was a princess of Scandinavian legend who married Heoroweard, and encouraged him to kill Hroðulf. The accounts of her vary greatly from source to source, but many comment on her ability to resurrect the dead. A lot of the story above is edited, and gaps are filled in, but there is some truth to it.

**2: **This prophecy is _**not**_ the prophecy Professor Trelawney made. It differs entirely. Professor Dumbledore has no knowledge of this prophecy.

**3**: I think JK Rowling does this, but in this story at least, prisoners of Askaban are branded.

**4**: Said by Reinhold Niebuhr.

Thanks for reading

**Please please _please _review :) **


	3. Chapter 3

**Shadowed Pain**

**Summary: **He never meant for them to hate him, to curse his name, and the day he was born. They turned on him first, and he did what he had to do. Harry Potter never meant to fall in love, or to become the most feared necromancer. They made him what he was.

**Background**: On the third task of the Triwizard tournament, Harry Potter appeared in front of the masses bloodied, crying, and holding the body of Hufflepuff's star Seeker. Barty Crouch Junior followed his Master's instructions, and did not make any contact with the boy, causing Dumbledore to have no proof other than Harry's word that the Dark Lord had returned. After months of no activity, Dumbledore decided that Lily and James' precious child was merely causing trouble for attention. This announcement sparked a campaign of hate towards the Boy Who Lived, and caused everyone, even his closest friends, to hate him for trying to disturb the peace they had fought so hard for.

**Timing:** The story starts in Harry's fifth year, on Christmas Day. For the purpose of the story, Marcus is only a year above him.

**Disclaimer**: I'm clearly not JK Rowling, and I take no credit for the world she has made, nor any characters originally created by her, only for the few I have created by myself.

**AN:** Definitely not my favourite chapter by far, but necessary for the storyline. Hope you guys like it, _happy hallowe'en._ :)

* * *

><p>'<em>Necromancers are devilishly sneaky beings – they always have something up their sleeve. Unless you – like myself – have a brilliant mind and lightning fast reflexes, I would advise you to keep as far away from them as possible. Of course, they tend to keep to themselves, but while I was in Denmark courageously helping free a village from a pack of werewolves singlehandedly – a story for another time, my beautiful reader – when, an inch within my life, an entire Guild attacked me, out of nowhere. Must have felt threatened or something. Threatened – by me! Heroically – despite my injuries - I fought them off, and once again, freed the world from another devilish creature.'<em>

_*** Gilderoy Lockhart***_

_**Wanderings With Werewolves**_

* * *

><p>It was only as a ray of sunlight bloomed in the dark thunderous sky, only as the black storm clouds thinned and became grey, only as the violent torrent of rain bouncing off the pavement slowed to a gentle shower, that Harry Potter finally stopped walking.<p>

The overlarge hoodie that had once been Dudley's clung to his thin frame, the rainwater making the material heavier than ever, and so cold that Harry wondered whether he'd be warmer without it. His jeans were ripped, covered in mud, and no less wet than his hoodie. Harry was freezing, and despite his magic helping to rejuvenate him, he was completely exhausted.

But there was something different about him – something that went past the grime and dirt that covered his face, and tremors that rocked his body from the cold. The eyes that had once been dead, void of emotion, and flat, sparked with fire that had long been absent.

As Harry listened to the birds chirping their beautiful morning song, occasionally throwing in his own tuneless whistle, and stared into the sky where the golden ball of fire proudly announced the beginning of a new day, he smiled for the first time in months. He wasn't sure why, because it was impossible that they had been telling the truth. But that didn't really matter anyway – because Blárvéurr and Dorcha Grian had given him hope.

Harry was about to turn around, and hopefully retrace his steps – though he had no clue where he was - when in a moment of complete chance that would affect the course of his entire life, Harry turned his head, and spotted a café.

Well … a tavern.

It was located down a decidedly dodge alley, barely wide enough for Harry to walk through, and it was a complete miracle that Harry had even noticed it. The ground was covered in what looked like decades of dirt, and Harry wondered if the shops surrounding the tavern – which, judging by the rotten wooden planks, looked to have long been boarded up– had simply chucked their rubbish onto the street. The red-bricked apartments above the shop were windowless, ugly, and covered in filth and grime.

There was not a single person in the alley, and the only thing which even pointed to human activity, was the two bulging black rubbish bags dumped in the middle of the alley.

It was for this reason; Harry felt he had absolutely no reason to be embarrassed about how tightly he was gripping his wand.

It was evident from first glance that the tavern was tiny, even before Harry had stepped into the alley. It was a shoebox of a business, and a decidedly ugly one at that. Like the apartments that rested above it, the bar was made from ugly red brick, and no attempt had been made to disguise this fact. A thick oak door marked the entrance to the pub, and a small black sign rested above it, where fading letters spelled out the words 'Butcher's Tavern'.

Harry gulped, and gripped his wand tighter.

He had hoped, as he approached the tavern, that he might be able to take a peep into the small window to the left of the door, and hopefully prove wrong his fear that inside there were butchers playing with knives.

But as he neared it, and peered into the minute window, he realised that that was impossible. Completely clouded with decades worth of grime, and drunks emptying their stomachs, Harry decided he'd rather whatever was in there without a clue, than breathe in the stench of stale vomit for one second more.

And just because he was holding onto his wand so tightly he feared it might break, didn't mean that he was afraid. He was a Gryffindor, after all. Harry just held a healthy amount of … wariness of the tavern.

Sure, if he had a choice between the Dursleys, and the tavern, Harry would probably take the Dursleys, but he was soaking wet and desperate times called for desperate measures.

And Harry was not exactly one hundred percent sure on how to get home …

With the last thought that it couldn't be that bad – after all, he had his wand – Harry pushed the heavy oak door open, cringing at the groans of protest the door made, and took a few hesitant steps inside.

When he saw the outside of the tavern, and the name, Harry had been under the impression he was about to set foot in some sort of a dingy biker club, full of middle-aged men with countless tattoos, and numerous scars, dressed only in leathers. He thought the lighting would be dim – if there was lighting at all – and that the pub would reek of men's unwashed bodies, alcohol and vomit.

Instead what he saw nearly made his heart leap out of his skin, and he was not ashamed to say – because he felt it was completely justified – that his grip on his wand was tighter than ever. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, thinking that when he opened them they would be gone, and a middle-aged heavily tattooed biker would be in their place. But sure as hell, they were still there.

Wizards.

It was probably just his luck, Harry decided, for Ron and Hermione had frequently commented – quite insensitively, Harry felt – on just how bad it was. But this proved it. Of all the taverns in the world, he would just randomly stumble into a wizards tavern … The odds were staked at at least one in a million, if not a billion, but sure enough, there they were.

Staring at him.

Scratching his head self-consciously, Harry felt he would really like to know what it was with people and staring at him today.

The tavern was infinitely nicer inside than its dirty exterior indicated. Real coal fires burned at regular intervals along the walls, and the warmth from the gold and red flames spread an unimaginable feeling of comfort across his freezing body, quite unlike the fake gas fire the Dursleys kept at home. A bar, advertising every sort of drink Harry could imagine on long narrow shelves – some so old a layer of dust concealed the name, and some sparkling new – filled the whole back wall. Tables, made from the same heavy oak the front door was made of, filled the remaining space. Best of all, despite Harry's initial thoughts, there was no dirt on the matching oak doors, or vomit, at least from what Harry could tell in the fire's cheery lighting.

Although, Harry thought as he spied pale blonde hair peering out from behind a black hood, he doubted Lucius Malfoy would be sitting there if the room was anything less than spotless.

Harry gulped, tightening his grip on his wand even further, as his emerald eyes scanned the room, studying the people. Names and faces from articles in the Daily Prophet – suspected Death Eaters, prisoners broken out from Askaban by 'Sirius Black' – hushed conversations at Hogwarts, filled with fear, and his own memories of the Triwizard Tournament's Third Task flashed back at him.

Avery, Nott, Lestrange, Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson; they were all there, and they were all gaping at him.

Feeling subconscious under the weight of their stares, Harry cast a nervous eye down at his mud-splattered Muggle hoodie – still soaking wet, and covered in blood stains – his ripped and faded Muggle jeans, and his unlaced, soaking, and filthy Muggle shoes which, Harry grimaced, had left a long trail of muddy footprints leading to him. Harry narrowed his eyes at their disapproving stares, though he could have sworn Lucius' cloak was so clean, it was gleaming.

Well... Wasn't this just a wonderful Christmas gift. And there he was, thinking he hadn't gotten any presents.

A bar filled with Death Eaters and their spawn. It was certainly unique.

Although, Harry couldn't help but wonder why none of them had jumped him the moment he had entered the bar. Surely by now, he should be gagged and bound, and on a one way ticket to Voldemort's layer?

A small smirk spread across his face as he imagined Voldemort's home …

With thoughts of bunnies and pink duvets, Harry swallowed his fear and marked up to the bar. 'I need a map.' After all, it was hardly the sort of bar where 'please' and 'thank you' would be necessary, nor appreciated.

And when Harry saw the man manning the bar, he was sure he had made the right choice.

The second Harry's eyes landed on him, Harry had no doubt of why the bar was called 'Butcher's Tavern'. Nor did he have any trouble guessing who 'Butcher' was. For standing in front of him was a man double his height, with barrel like arms and legs so long Harry would have sworn he was on stilts. A thick white scar exploded from his untamed vivid red hair, cutting through his left eye, and leaving it permanently half closed. It continued through his nose, which had a large chunk missing from it, and cut down diagonally across his thin pale lips. From there, it disappeared down his thick high collared robes, and ended God knew where.

'Harry Potter.' Butcher's deep growling voice sounded, his one working grey eye focusing on him menacingly. 'You have nerve showing your face here.'

Lucius Malfoy rose from his seat by the fire, in one graceful snakelike movement. He pulled his black hood back from his face, and his pale blue eyes focused on Harry. 'Rather,' his cold voice swept from crimson lips, 'I would wonder how Potter entered the tavern, Butcher.' He narrowed his eyes at the scarred beast before him, 'You assured the Dark Lord that no person Unmarked could enter this building.' Lucius' pale blue eyes surveyed Harry's face with concealed interest, 'Let alone enter it.'

Harry gulped, the loud sound echoing in the silent room. Everyone was watching the conversation by now, holding their wands with smirk as they stared at Harry, waiting for the slightest sound of a threat.

And from what Lucius had said, he was in a building filled to the brim with Voldemort's followers – something he had hoped he would never have had the pleasure of doing. A place which he should never have been able to enter in the first place …

Yet it didn't exactly take Dumbledore to figure why he, who didn't have the Dark Mark, was able to see and enter the building. For Harry had been marked by Voldemort in a different place, fourteen years ago.

Harry had no clue where he was – he had walked for hours, going down streets randomly and ignoring all sign posts. But whatever was outside was surely safer than in the tavern. Whether he had a map, or not; Harry didn't want to stand in the tavern for a moment longer being scrutinised by smirking hooded figures, all waiting for the slightest threat to attack. However, Harry doubted the thirty-something Death Eaters, and their children, would let him simply leave. Especially not when he had so willingly walked into their lair.

_Not unless he was one of them …_

Harry blinked twice, trying to clear his mind that was numb from fear. He zoned back into the conversation just in time to hear Malfoy call Butcher an incompetent fool.

'I'm the best at wards within Europe, Malfoy, and you damn well know it. I'm much better than you, relying on galleons and personal connections to get people to do favours for you.' Butcher snarled, his thin lips pressed into a tight line.

Through his numb mind, Harry vaguely saw the youngest Malfoy stand up in outrage, before a single thought returned to his mind.

_Not unless he was one of them …_

Harry distantly watched as Lucius ordered the youngest Malfoy back to his seat, with a harsh remark of having a Gryfindork as a son.

'Then how did he get in?' Malfoy argued back smugly, continuing his argument with Butcher from where the two had left off. All eyes were on the two arguing, seeming to have forgotten about Harry standing there, slowly but surely creating a puddle of water around him, as rainwater dripped from his clothes.

'Then how did he get in?' Malfroy argued back smugly. All eyes were on the two arguing, seeming to have forgotten about Harry standing there, slowly but surely creating a puddle as water dripped of him.

_Not unless he was one of them …_

'Dearest Malfoy,' Harry said coldly, in his most condescending tone. 'Do you honestly believe I'm still the Old Goat's pawn after all this time?'

Harry's eyes, wide with fear, stared into Malfoy's intelligent mercury gaze.

Desperately trying to convince the master of politics that he was sincere, Harry frantically struggled to remember the term they had spent studying drama back in primary school, while attempting to keep his gaze cool and calm.

Slowly his face changed to before almost a mirror of the Pureblood's naturally arrogant, condescending features. A long silence began, and unlike the Harry he had once been, he made no attempt to break it, for anything could break the fragile seed of belief he had planted in Lucius' mind.

Through narrowed unblinking emerald eyes Harry watched as Malfoy's Holier-Than-Thou mask disappeared, as unveiled shock broke though the barrier.

As the other Death Eaters looked to Harry in amusement – clearly thinking it was some sort of practical joke from one of Lucius' many enemies under Polyjuice – others looked on in disbelief, and some, like Malfoy, in plain shock.

Harry continued to play his part, his fact a perfect imitation of the Slytherin's at school scornful superior expressions. Staring at Malfoy as though the man wasn't worth his time or day, Harry continued his monologue, trying to look as conceited and Dark as possible, white his heart pounded with fear beneath his ribs.

'I really must send my regards to Lord Voldemort,' Harry smirked at the outraged gasps, and continued on, 'for helping me to fool even the likes of yourself.' He gave a cold, fake laugh. 'Unless,' Harry paused, letting the sentence hang in the air, 'You're just an idiot.'

Harry was sure his heart was about to explode out of his chest, for he was so afraid one of them would summon Voldemort here and now, to ask if it was true. So as peered as his audience through his lashes, Harry desperately hoped his half thought out plan had worked. Even if the fair majority believed him, that would be enough – for they would convince the rest.

It was common knowledge, at least to those who cared to pay attention, that most politicians were Death Eaters – or rather that most Death Eaters were politicians. And if not, you could bet they were working somewhere in the Ministry of magic, whether as an Auror, an Unspeakable, or as an Advisor to the Minister. It didn't really matter where – as long as they were in a position of power.

For after all, if there was one thing Voldemort hated more than Mudbloods, it was the weak.

So Harry knew when he said the fair majority, he was being ambitious to say the least. Or maybe, he had just jinxed himself. In any case, when he did look up, about half of them were glaring – Grabbe and Goyle senior were even cracking their knuckles menacingly – and about two fifths of them were plain laughing, finding it hilarious their Lord would invite Harry Potter to the Dark side. The remaining few were sitting on the balance – some nodding along – but most committing to neither side.

Harry gulped, cursing himself for not thinking of a better plan. Or better yet, never entering the tavern in the first place. All around him were enemies, and barely a handful believed what he was saying. They thought it was ridiculous that someone would want him on their side – that their Lord would want him on their side. It was really only a matter of time before the first curse was fired.

And to add insult to injury, Malfoy was now laughing; a cold deadly laugh that sent shivers up Harry's spine. His mercury glinted in a menacing light. 'You?' He fingered his cane in a silent but deadly matter, in what was clearly meant to be a threat.

'No one wants you on their side.'

Harry blinked, his emerald eyes glistening as he felt tears building up at the harsh truth. Ron and Hermione, Dumbledore and the Weasleys, Sirius and Remus; not one of them had even so much sent him a letter over the summer, or even tell him that they no longer wished to be his friend. Instead, Harry forced to spend the summer with the Dursleys, thinking it was the most miserable his summer could get.

Until, one day, Instead Harry received the Daily Prophet, and on the front page was a blown up picture of his face, and a title screaming 'The Boy Who Lied' with exclusive interviews from those he once considered family continuing on from page one to nine.

No one believed him, no one trusted him. Everyone thought he was simply making up Voldemort's return for more attention for himself – as if he wanted it! The responsibility, the press watching his every move, judging his every decision … Who would want to be called The Boy Who Lived if that was the price that came with it? Who wanted to be ridiculed each day by Rita Skeeter, or alienated by the only people he had, so that he had no one to turn to?

'You have no power.'

No one ever did see it, did they? They always saw him as a figurehead for the light, but never as someone with true power.

Dumbledore, and his condescending 'I'll tell you when you're older' speech. Snape, constantly addressing him as 'Boy' or 'Brat' as if he knew just what the Dursleys called him, and vanishing any progress Harry had made on a potion, deeming it unacceptable when in reality it was one of the better ones in the class. Hermione, having to constantly beat him, because she was meant to be the 'smart one'. Ron, always putting him down, saying that he was only liked because he was a celebrity, that only him and Hermione were his true friends..

But … he did. He had power – more than anyone's in this room.

He was … a necromancer.

_He was a necromancer._

'I have no power?' Harry raised an eyebrow coldly at the man in front of him. 'Really, Lucius? Does it make you warm and gooey inside to go around putting people down – people who you known have more power than you?

'Because really, that's not very Slytherin like.' Harry smirked at the politician's glare.

'Must I prove to you I am more powerful? For I wouldn't advise a duel against Voldemort's heir Lucius.' He sneered at the room's stunned expression. 'You will find that he would be most displeased with you – that is, if you survive it.

'For really, Lucius, you are talking to the person who survived the Killing Curse, and lived to tell the tale. Tell me; do you recall who it was who saved the Philosopher's Stone from Voldemort when they were merely eleven? Surely, you being a school governor, you would know?' Harry frowned, a look of fake sympathy directed at Lucius. 'Unless, they didn't tell you.''

Harry paused, allowing the dig at Lucius' power to hang in the air. The Death Eaters were all listening now, half of them believing, and the others clearly impressed with the power Harry spoke of.

'Who was it that closed the Chamber of Secrets in second year, defeating a fully grown basilisk in the process with merely a sword? Let's not forget that at the age of twelve, I had just defeated your Lord for the third time.

'And then, correct me if I'm wrong, I believe I freed Sirius Black, your Lord's most loyal servant,' Harry expertly twisted the truth, 'from captivity, right under the Ministry's nose. At the age of thirteen, I had cast a fully corporeal Patronus charm strong enough to shield not only me, but Sirius Black, from hundreds of Dementors.

'I'm sure you all know what happened in fourth year, Lucius. The dragons, the Mer-People, the maze? Well … I suppose you all did miss the maze.' Harry smirked at their guilty expressions. 'But we all caught up at the grand after party – Voldemort versus a bound Harry Potter. And what a fun party that was …

'I'm sure you remember who won that duel.

'Tell me, Lucius,' he snarled, uncaring that in Pureblood society he was committing social suicide by calling the Pureblood by his first name. 'Have you been alive this past _fucking_ year? Bothered to pick up a newspaper between combing your hair, and grovelling at my Master's feet?

'Well,' Harry panted, his emotions exploding. He finally had an outlet. 'I'm sure the Daily freaking Prophet would be more than fucking happy to fill you in. Maybe September's headline that I'm such a Dark wizard that at one year old I killed,' his voice broke, 'my own parents? Not Voldemort – me.

'What about last month? When Rita Skeeter wrote about how I was actually Voldemort's son? Or last week's fucking edition? That, in an exclusive interview given by Ronald Weasley _himself_, it was _me_ who opened the Chamber of Secrets, and almost killed everyone. Including what I thought was my best friend.'

Harry glared at the sea of stunned faces before him.

'Do you honestly think I would still be one the Light's side when this is how they treat me?' Harry yelled at his audience, feeling his anger about the last year swimming to the surface, and last night's resolution. 'The Boy Who Lived is a trophy for them, and toy to love and hate, and throw around, until they need me again.'

Ten years. Ten years he spent at the Dursleys. Ten _horrifying_ years. Being beaten, and hurt, and neglected. And no matter how much he begged, or he asked, no one had let him stay at Hogwarts for Summer.

And he had never realised why until now. He had always accepted Dumbledore's excuse that no teacher would be there to supervise him. But … They wanted him broken. They wanted him broken so that they could mould him into their perfect weapon against the Dark Lord. They needed him to be used to being treated badly, so that no matter what they put him through, he would look to them for support.

He saved the Philosophers Stone from Voldemort. He saved Ginny from the Chamber of Secrets. He saved Sirius from death. He _tried_ to save Cedric.

But who had saved him?

No one.

'Voldemort sees me as a worthy opponent – as someone to be watched, to be attended to and treated right. The Light sees me as a child, a toy, a pawn. And it will be a sad day indeed when they finally find out Voldemort is alive once more. Because on that day, they will also realise that the Boy Who Lived is on their side no longer.'

* * *

><p><strong>Please review :)<strong>

Happy Hallowe'en.


	4. Chapter 4

**Shadowed Pain**

**Summary: **He never meant for them to hate him, to curse his name, and the day he was born. They turned on him first, and he did what he had to do. Harry Potter never meant to fall in love, or to become the most feared necromancer. They made him what he was.

**Background**: On the third task of the Triwizard tournament, Harry Potter appeared in front of the masses bloodied, crying, and holding the body of Hufflepuff's star Seeker. Barty Crouch Junior followed his Master's instructions, and did not make any contact with the boy, causing Dumbledore to have no proof other than Harry's word that the Dark Lord had returned. After months of no activity, Dumbledore decided that Lily and James' precious child was merely causing trouble for attention. This announcement sparked a campaign of hate towards the Boy Who Lived, and caused everyone, even his closest friends, to hate him for trying to disturb the peace they had fought so hard for.

**Timing:** The story starts in Harry's fifth year, on Christmas Day. For the purpose of the story, Marcus is only a year above him.

**Disclaimer**: I'm clearly not JK Rowling, and I take no credit for the world she has made, nor any characters originally created by her, only for the few I have created by myself.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm so sorry about how long it's been since I updated. As I said, I lost a friend, and I had to spend a while in the hospital.<strong>

**It didn't help that Sytherinprincess stole my story, and I want to make it clear now that I have no intention, whatsoever, of ever putting my story up for adoption! But I want to shout out a big thank you to everyone who helped me.**

**_So to jaspervamp, meany, SadisticSinner, Sweet Smiles, Wolven Spirits, Fae0306, __mihel asyki akatsuki schizo, HeidiFox, Lazy, Bleached Shadow, SeverusIHaveLoved, history, HollyBerry89, vairetwilight, aquakim, and stubs1101 thank you so much! It really meant a lot !_**

**Of course, her story has yet to be taken down, nor has she contacted me. While this is incredibly frustrating, I feel I owe you this chapter given your incredible response and the length of time it's been since I updated! Again, sorry about that!**

* * *

><p>'<em>It has often been debated between historians the validity of the age old argument that there is truth in the Tale of the Three Brothers. I know that many renowned historians believe in the idea that the first brother was the original Wandcrafter, the second the original Necromancer and the third the original Spellcrafter, and that Death was merely the obstacle to their genius. I myself feel it is merely a bedtime story that people read far too much into.' <em>

_*** Bathilda Bagshot ***_

_**Bed Time Stories: Their Origin**_

* * *

><p>Before Harry had even entered Hogwarts, Hagrid had warned him of how evil Death Eaters were, cementing their brutality with stories that had sickened his impressionable eleven year old mind. Then, a chance encounter with Malfoy - who proceeded to call the only person who had ever shown Harry kindness an 'oaf' - solidified the hatred Hagrid had already planted in his overwhelmed and susceptible mind. When he got to Hogwarts, Harry was sorted into Gryffindor, where he was constantly surrounded by the children of those who fought in the last war. Harry's sole desire after living his whole life without affection was to be accepted and this quickly caused him to adopt the hatred his fellow Gryffindors felt for the Slytherins.<p>

Which led to now.

There he was, standing in a Death Eater bar, his wand in his pocket and _smiling_. He knew that he should be terrified, and looking for a way out, but instead the Light's Saviour was willingly staying in a bar filled with his enemies, and he was happier than he had been in months. The scattered applause that had followed his speech, while highly embarrassing, was extremely encouraging. Several men had come up to him afterwards to shake his hand, and welcome him into the Dark, and while some looked put down to have him on their side, most were relieved or ecstatic.

The warmth and acceptance that radiated off the Death Eaters was amazing, as if Harry had finally found a family. It was with an almost guilty conscience that Harry remembered he wasn't really a Death Eater, and when they found out the truth Harry doubted there was enough Felix Felicis in the world that could save him from their wrath.

It was through a brain clouded with desire to be a part of the family forever that Harry forced himself to remember that he was literally sitting with torturers, rapists and murderers. They were far from the ordinary people they appeared to be – well as ordinary as people who hung around a bar on Christmas day were. They were _Death Eaters_ – they knew Dark magic, and they weren't selective about who they used it on, whether that meant it was a five year old Muggle, or a respected elderly member of the Wizengamot.

Yet looking at them then, you wouldn't know that. From an outside perspective, they simply looked like a meticulously dressed family. You wouldn't have known from looking at Bellatrix that she had just spent over a decade in Askaban, nor from Lucius that he was anything more than a dedicated politician and a loving father. And Harry yearned to be a part of it, to be accepted.

So for now, Harry was content to play pretend.

The warmth and acceptance radiating off the Death Eaters was truly amazing, and Harry felt completely amazed he had even been accepted – even if they were putting their faith into the wrong person. They were Death Eaters - they were Dark! But they were so … friendly … And he couldn't help but feel amused as Lucius and Butcher argued like old enemies, but he knew – like everyone else there – that was it was really only friendly banter.

It was just like a big old family.

In the bar, it was like everyone took off their masks and just revealed themselves. They trusted each other implicitly to keep their secrets – unlike Dumbledore and his age restriction; they shared their secrets with young and old alike. A baby learnt about her father torturing someone; a toddler about his parents' nightly activities; a grandfather about his grandson's love life.

And sitting by the bar, alone, Harry couldn't help but think how things could have been different. The Sorting Hat had wanted to place him into Slytherin, but he had refused. All because on the train ride to school, he had met Ron. And Ron told him that all Dark wizards came from that house – that the Dark wizard who had killed his parents had been in that house. If he had never met Ron on that train ride, Harry wouldn't have known about the four Houses. He would have been in this bar today, accepted as one of the Family, and not as a tolerated visitor.

Harry's entrance into the wizarding world had a series of carefully planned coincidences. With realising it, he had been moulded into the perfect weapon.

In the back of his mind, Harry knew he must be wrong. To think that Death Eaters were comforting, friendly, happy … Because they had taken so many wizards' lives. Those deeds could never be forgiven.

But at the same time, they were only doing it for their cause – like when Dumbledore tortured Karkaroff as he fled from Hogwarts on the night of the Third Task, believing him to have crucial information regarding Voldemort and proof that what Harry said had happened was true. But Dumbledore's _crucio_ was so powerful, and so filled with hate for Karkaroff and everything he stood for, that Karkaroff perished within seconds – unable to provide Dumbledore with anything, but more blood on his hands.

Harry had been left standing, with a horrific experience that bore no witnesses, yet he had his faith that his friends would trust him and together they would defeat Voldemort.

That hadn't happened.

For a few weeks, they believed him. Some doubts were expressed, but Dumbledore rallied his order and sent Hagrid searching for the giants. He tried to make an alliance with the goblins, but to no avail. Dumbledore taught some basic battle spells to the inexperienced members of the Order, and they prepared for any attack Voldemort swung at them.

But the weeks passed by, and Voldemort had done nothing. And then those weeks turned into months, and Voldemort had still to strike. When Voldemort had still to kill even a single Muggle after months, the questions rose. Of Harry's sanity, of his ego, of his Darkness. Questions of whether he wanted to be the next Dark Lord – of whether his mind connection with the Dark Lord had caused Harry to turn Dark himself.

And when the summer ended, and Voldemort had yet to murder, it was decided that it was merely Harry's ego talking. He hadn't had a battle with Voldemort since second year, and Harry Potter just wanted some more fame and glory to add to his name. Maybe, Dumbledore had explained to the Order, he felt people weren't paying him enough attention, so he had made up Voldemort's return. Cedric Diggory's death had been a pleasant addition to his tale, and Harry had made up a lie that Voldemort had killed him, though the Ministry's Healers had examined his body and confirmed he died from shock during the Third Task, perhaps due to the sight of a Spinx hor an Acromantula.

It was on the first of September that Reeta Skeeter's column 'The Boy Who Lied' appeared in the Daily Prophet. Since then, it had run daily.

* * *

><p>Harry frowned, watching Lucius Malfroy tickling his niece on the ribs. He shouldn't be here. Not in this bar. He would never belong because he would never allow the Dark Lord to mark him, yet all of them thought he already <em>was<em> a Death Eater. And one of Voldemort's most trusted followers. Harry couldn't help but feel guilty, knowing that he was lying to all of them.

Yet there was a part of him that envied each and every one of them; they were all so happy, and so familiar with each other. Harry had never had that, and he doubted any of them knew what they had, nor that his heart yearned to be one of them. To be loved, cherished and accepted; not matter what.

But at the same time, Harry knew he could never torture. And he wouldn't murder. The Dark were Dark for a reason, and this scene, despite all its innocence, was the complete opposite of what the Dark side stood for. They slaughtered people for fun, and they were proud of it. And it wounded Harry to watch the happy, pure faces of the children of the Death Eaters, because one day they would far from pure. It physically hurt Harry to watch future murderers laughing and smiling and Harry wished that he could make them stay that way. But young as they were, Harry could see the Darkness inside them. He could see the Pureblood arrogance, the careful psychological evaluation of everyone, and the manipulation of those around them. He could see it in every one of them.

And it killed him, because there was nothing he could do to prevent them from becoming exactly like their parents – torturers, rapists and murderers.

He would never become a Death Eater. And though it was partly because he couldn't kill, or torture, and though it was partly because he wanted his children to have a blissfully ignorant childhood, that wasn't the real reason.

His parents were killed by these people, and no matter how hard he tried to look past that fact, Harry found he couldn't. Two lives taken for a war that couldn't care less about the sacrifice. Two lives taken that only added to long list of names this war had taken. Two lives that could have _easily_ been spared.

Harry grimaced as an enormous body sat set next to him at the bar, eying the dozen other empty seats far away from him. He bit his lip as an erotically masculine voice asked for firewhiskey, wondering why a stranger had chosen to sit next to him in the darkest, most secluded corner of the bar. Harry supressed the urge to scream there was a reason he had sat there – _away_ from everyone else. But the giant of a man had plonked himself down, his bulky arms spread across the table like he owned it.

Typical Slytherin, Harry snorted.

Harry saw two fingers shoot up as a sign of thanks to the bartender as the firewhiskey was delivered. He scrunched up his face in distaste as the stranger knocked back the strong drink in one loud gulp, and gruffly asked for another.

The lack of manners, restraint and dignity was the complete opposite of everything the Slytherin House stood for, and Harry couldn't help but wonder what it was that plagued the man so much that he would resort to alcohol in the middle of the day in front of people who spent their lives spotting people's weaknesses and learning how to use that knowledge to their advantage.

Inhaling the scent of alcohol from the man's breath, Harry shuddered as he remembered the same scent from a different man. Harry retreated as far into the corner as he could, clutching his Butterbeer tight to his chest. He held back a shuddering breath, his heart beating fast and his mind suddenly struck with fear. It took him a few moments to remember that he was in a wizarding bar, far away from Uncle Vernon.

'I would have taken you for a drinker, Potter.' The man's heavy hands pulled back his black hood, and ran through his messy brown locks in an attempt to tame them. 'Certainly have enough to mope over.' He muttered, sending a cloud of firewhiskey-scented breath right into Harry's face.

Piercing blues eyes stared into his own emerald green. Harry sighed heavily as he turned to face Marcus Flint, Hogwarts' resident tough guy. Harry hated to turn the cliché phrase of the idiotic girls in his year, but he knew from Wood's frantic warnings on the Quidditch pitch that if you looked him in the eye, you're dead meat. Having never spoken to him, only having shared a Quidditch with him on occasion, Harry didn't know whether to believe it or not.

The guy was huge – he could probably kill Harry with his bare hands if he wanted to, though any Slytherin who resorted to such Muggle methods of killing would be treated like scrum. The muscles which exploded from his arms were easily size of barrels, and Harry felt rather pathetic standing next to him with his own skinny adolescent arms. But despite Wood's graphic stories of just how brutally violent Marcus Flint was, Harry found he himself couldn't see it. The small crinkles around his eyes, and the tiny dimples in his cheeks told a far different story than the rumours that had circulated Hogwarts about him, and Harry found he was somewhat disgusted with himself that he had believed them at all given what was said about him.

That said, those piercing blue eyes seemed to stare right into his core, and Harry couldn't help but blush into his Butterbeer, unnerved by the elder Slytherin's stare. 'I'm only fifteen.' He admitted, grudgingly wondering why the Slytherin had to start up a conversation when all Harry wanted was some privacy for a moment, and time to think.

'Yet you've experienced pain a man can go a lifetime without.' Marcus said wisely, giving the two fingered gesture once more to the barman as he gave Flint, his second vodka. Harry frowned at the rather intelligent line, remembering what Wood had said on the quidditch pitch about Marcus being as dumb as a toolbox.

Harry looked at Flint, not sure how to respond. It wasn't like he could admit all his thoughts and feelings to a stranger, nor did he want to. He wasn't the type who whined about his pain to whoever was listening. And he doubted Flint cared about anything right now, other than getting a third shot. Futhermore, he couldn't help but wonder what Flint's angle was - it had been a long time since Harry was the Gryffindor who naively believed people had no ulterior motives. This was one of Slytherin's key players – the Flint's, after the Malfoys, were the best manipulators of the Purebloods. There was a reason Flint was sitting next to him in this darkened bar, pretending to care.

'The strong but silent type.' Flint nodded at him. 'Never did think you were an attention seeker, even though they said.'

Harry grimaced, knowing 'they' were probably Slytherins. He didn't like thinking about other people talking about him behind his back. He had no doubt Flint knew this well – it was no casual remark that caused him to bring up such a sensitive topic.

'Yeah? So what did you say?' Harry asked, watching Flint sip at his firewhiskey.

'I said that I didn't know you, and I asked them why they thought I cared. Apparently it was interesting, and I told them that it maybe it was. But it didn't concern me, so again why should I care?' Flint grinned, flashing crooked teeth in Harry's direction.

'If you don't care so much,' Harry turned to face him, 'why did you sit here?'

'You gave one hell of a speech, Potter. And I don't like putting all my eggs into one basket – especially when I'm not sure that basket will win the war.' Flint confessed, taking another small sip of firewhiskey. He licked his pale lips, savouring the taste.

'So you came over here? Thinking I would care enough about you to convince you to join the Dark side?' Harry asked, grimacing at the smell of vodka in the air.

Marcus scowled, looking at him intently. 'You must think me an idiot of you believe I can't see through your act.' He murmured, his voice low. Harry's eyes flashed up at him, his heart beating frantically, 'I'm not as stupid as they say, Potter.' He gave a low chuckle, though Harry found no humour in the situation. If he was found out … Fuck. Harry doubted he would even live long enough to get his wand out in time to defend himself.

'Are-'

Marcus interrupted, leaning close enough to Harry that he could smell that alcohol off his breath, and the luxurious cologne he wore. 'I won't tell, Potter.' He shrugged. 'It doesn't affect me in the slightest. I'm neutral, you see.' He shrugged, as if discussing politics was natural to him.

And knowing Purebloods, it probably was regular dinner conversation.

'That said …' Harry's heart leapt, his eyes panicked as he gazed up at Marcus' smirking face. 'You must understand how big a favour it is you're asking of me. If it's revealed that you are indeed lying, and that I knew about it … Well, that would put me in a very bad position.'

Harry frowned at Marcus, unsure what exactly it was he was implying. He hadn't thought of his lie as anything long term, rather as something that would allow him to survive the afternoon. If he, Dumbledore's Golden Boy, had entered Butcher's Tavern, well Harry doubted he would still be alive. But if he, Voldemort's most prized Death Eater, entered Butcher's Tavern, the Death Eaters would be too afraid of angering their Master to do anything to him, despite any lingering doubts.

His face must have said as much because Marcus sneered at him, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, 'You really didn't think this through, did you? You realise, if they find out about your little secret, nothing will protect you? You really think they would let anyone, let alone Harry Potter, live after seeing them without their mask?'

Harry grimaced, his emerald eyes watching as Draco told a joke, and _laughed_. It was … odd, seeing the pale face in anything but its usual superior, bored expression. The other Death Eaters … They were all smiling, letting their guard down because they knew they were amongst friends, and family.

If they did find out that their greatest enemy had been watching them the whole time, perhaps gaining information about their weaknesses by watching them … well any chance of a merciful death was out the window.

You'll need help … If you want any chance of keeping up this charade.'

Harry nodded, accepting this. Undoubtedly this was the reason Flint had come over to him, but something didn't quite add up. 'What's in this for you?'

'Me? Well, of course the pleasure of knowing the 'Golden Boy''. Harry glowered at his heavy sarcasm. 'And a favour. To be called in at any time.'

A favour … Harry grimaced at the vague ambiguity of the phrase. Flint could make him do anything – from running through the Great Hall starkers, to dodging in front of an _Avada Kedavra_ for him. Yet Harry had little room for negotiation – if anything Flint was being somewhat generous with his offer; given that if he was found out, it would result in sure death both for him and Harry.

Harry sat up in his chair, wishing he was taller than Flint so he didn't have to raise his eyes to meet the Slytherin's. 'You have yourself a deal.'

Flint smirked, his blue eyes flashing with glee. 'You swear it on your magic?'

Harry glared at the Slytherin, liking him less and less as the seconds ticked by. Flint was asking him to perform a Wizard's Oath – to break it would result in the loss of Harry's magic, rendering him less than a Squib. It was so violent when the magic was ripped away from the soul of the wizard, that many did not even survive it.

Yet Harry nodded all the same, aware that if he didn't Marcus would tell the Death Eaters and he'd be dead anyway. So, hidden in the darkest corner of the bar, himself and Marcus joined hands, 'I swear on my magic that I will grant Marcus Flint one favour, at his request, on the condition that he keeps my secret and aids me in my attempts to keep it.'

Flint smirked, and Harry resisted the temptation to strangle him. It was done – he could feel the new constraints sliding over his magic, restraining it from its usual freedom. He glared up at the giant beside him; the muscles in his barrel-like arms looked even bigger than usual as the Slytherin gloated menacingly over his third drink.

'Why do you it?' Harry asked.

'Do what?'

'Drink so much.' Harry said quietly, eying Flint's hand freeze half-way to his mouth. With a clenched jaw, and a hand that looked ready to swing, Flint turned to face Harry. He took one slow, steadying breath, and silently wondered whether despite the efforts he had gone to today to ensure his survival, Flint was going to kill him anyway.

'Potter,' Malfroy's voice interrupted, a triumphant gleam in his mercury eyes, 'if you really are a supporter of the Dark Lord – a Death Eater, if you will – then surely you would not mind showing us your Mark.'

Harry gulped, his emerald eyes wide in horror. Shit! Shit! Fuckity shit! He cast his eyes around, searching for some kind of help, but was only met with blank looks from Death Eaters, them having already established Harry was working for the Dark Lord. However, Harry had a feeling they wouldn't be quite so absent-minded when it came out his left arm was bare …

Butcher gave a long slow chuckle, the kind of laugh which made the hairs stand up on the back of your neck and your spine to shiver. His silver scar gleamed in the firelight, as his brilliant eyes flashed in mirth. 'Don't be an idiot, Malfroy. Do you honestly think the Dark Lord so unintelligent he would mark the Boy Who Lived in such an obvious place? Where any Light wizard would look the moment his loyalties were questioned?'

Harry nodded, grinning down at Malfroy in a bigoted Pureblood way. He could feel his heart still beating frantically in his chest, but Butcher's argument made perfect sense.

Malfroy nodded, but his eyes were narrowed at Harry. He clearly didn't like being laughed at, especially not from a Half-Blood. Harry grinned mentally, thrilled at fooling one of the greatest manipulators of the century.

It was Nott who asked the question on everyone's lips.

'So, where are you marked, boy?' Nott asked, his snarling voice light in an attempt at conversation. He raised an eyebrow, curious as to where his master would mark the Boy Who Lived.

All eyes focused on Harry, their gazes searching his body intently as if they could see through his clothes. Reddening from this thought, and all of the attention, Harry looked down self-consciously. But not before noticing Marcus Flint staring right at his … area. Crossing his legs on the bar stool, he self-consciously curled his arms around his legs, hoping to shield their prying eyes from his … private parts.

Being politicians by trade, and accustomed to receiving the very best, Purebloods were taught the art of deceit and body language from a very early age. With his cheeks blushing, and crossed legs, it was no wonder that the Purebloods realised almost immediately what area he was trying to conceal from them – rather obviously. And with their eyes drawn to that area, and the fact he was trying to hide it, the conclusion that that was where the Mark had been placed was not completely unfound.

In any case, it didn't take more than a few seconds of careful examination for the Death Eaters to determine exactly where Harry Potter's Mark was. The only thing was, it being in a rather holy area, no one particularly wanted to voice it. Being civilised men, in the company of ladies, no one really wanted to discuss the tool essential for reproduction.

That being said, Bellatrix Lestrange had just spent a decade in Askaban, where she had favoured keeping her sanity rather than remembering her long torturous lessons with Ms. Lemon about manners and etiquette. 'There,' she screeched, extending a long thin finger to point right at Harry's private area, before continuing to describe the exactly placing very graphically.

Bellatrix Lestrange had always been a loose cannon, even before she went to Askaban, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN <strong>: _**Please Review! **_ _**I'll be eternally grateful! :D Even just a word will do!**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Shadowed Pain**

**Summary: **He never meant for them to hate him, to curse his name, and the day he was born. They turned on him first, and he did what he had to do. Harry Potter never meant to fall in love, or to become the most feared necromancer. They made him what he was.

**Timing:** The story starts in Harry's fifth year, on Christmas Day. For the purpose of the story, Marcus is only a year above him.

**Disclaimer**: I'm clearly not JK Rowling, and I take no credit for the world she has made, nor any characters originally created by her, only for the few I have created by myself.

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:<span> Unfortunately SlytherinPrincess has yet to take down her story, and Fanfiction has done nothing about it, however I'm hopeful they will soon. **

**Obviously this is quite short, and undoubtedly my least favourite chapter. However, the next update will be if not tomorrow, the next day because I've got all of it written apart from one scene. **

**A Happy Easter to any Christian fans! **

**Unfortunately for me that means a lot of revising, but I'll probably be able to update more frequently for the next two weeks or so. Soon it will be exam season though :/ **

**This is definitely my least favourite chapter, in fact I'm dreading your reaction, and it is something of a filler, but in the next few chapters this fic is going to start picking up pace so bear with me. I promise lots of twists and turns! **

* * *

><p><em>Throughout the centuries, it has often been debated whether it is important for Purebloods to 'wear a mask'. As an esteemed philosopher, I wonder why on earth someone would ever suggest that it was ever acceptable to take it off. After all, emotion is weakness.<em>

**_*Abraxas Malfoy*_**

**_Values of a True Slytherin_**

* * *

><p>Silence: It had never been something Harry was fond of, having spent the majority of his childhood locked in a shadowed cupboard where there was rarely any sound, with exception of the occasional spider scuttling around in the safety of the darkness. During the day, Harry usually heard the faint echo of Dudley's violent video games and furious screams of protest when he died, as he played them, almost tauntingly, in the living room across the hall from his cupboard. Frequently his Uncle would complain to Aunt Petunia; noisily so Harry could hear just how much of a worthless idiot he was. Occasionally - if Harry had misbehaved in some way, or beaten Dudley in test, or even just because Uncle Vernon had had a bad day at work and needed an outlet – he could hear hands clumsily inserting a key into the lock on the thin door that separated Harry's sanctuary from the rest of the house. And his guardian would show him exactly how much he detested him, and the burden he brought to the Dursley household.<p>

Then his cupboard was no longer silent, but filled with the whistling of a belt flying through the air, the disgusting smack of a belt mercilessly ripping apart skin, and the unbearable pleading cries of a child begging for it to stop.

Yet, Harry's loathing of silence had no longer been an issue when he was sorted into Gryffindor, undoubtedly the rowdiest House of the four, where there was constant laughter, raucous games of Exploding Snap or rowdy games of Wizard's Chess, and the twin's relentless pranking of everyone in the school.

In any case, by the end of June of his first year of Hogwarts, he was no longer fearful of the quietness of his cupboard that was constant reminder of the fact he had no one, because that was now entirely untrue. Harry had _friends_ - best friends! - and they came in the glorious forms of the freckled slob Ronald Weasley, the bushy haired bookworm that was Hermione Granger.

While he had lost their friendship, Harry was happy to have at least known companionship, and before today, Harry could honestly have said he no longer had any qualms about silence.

That was before he knew the horror of all the people in Butcher's Tavern looking, gobsmacked, at his _area_.

His cheeks still burned at what Bellatrix had concluded, and his emerald eyes remained wide after hearing a range of words he had never heard before when the witch had graphically described where, how, and when she surmised the Boy Who Lived had been 'claimed' by the Dark Lord. He cringed, his cheeks crimson with embarrassment. If there was ever a time Harry would have welcomed an _Obliviate_, this was it.

His remaining innocence now lost, Harry surveyed the assembly of Slytherins who appeared to be taking the image of himself and Voldemort doing … _It_ … worse than he was. Glancing at the horrified faces of the mass of Death Eaters who had been shocked into silence, Harry couldn't help but feel slightly offended – Harry hadn't realised that the idea of him naked was that repulsive. Although Harry thought, as he glanced down at his own body, grimy from the rainwater, bruised and his clothing splattered with small specks of blood, perhaps it wasn't entirely unfounded.

Add his parents' murderer into the equation … Well; perhaps the Death Eaters had a point. After all, the man didn't have a nose – what else didn't he have? Harry's ears reddening at the thought, Harry vowed never to think about that again, and turned his attention to the amassed Death Eaters. It would be smart, given that– if Flint had his way – he was going to be parading around as one of them, to learn as much as he could about them. It was clear to him, that despite the amount the Slytherins feared and respected their Master, the idea of seeing him naked – and perhaps lacking one essential body part – repulsed them just as much as it repulsed him.

Gazing at the crowd of slack jawed Death Eaters, who despite everything were still staring at his groin, Harry realised he wanted nothing more than to leave. 'Well …' He began, wavering when he received no response from the crowd, 'I'd better be going then.' The Death Eaters made no indication they had heard, their eyes still focused on his manhood, where they believed the Dark Lord had marked him.

'Hold up, Potter.' Flint slid awkwardly off the barstool, rising to his full height. Harry glowered up at the man who had taken his freedom from him; angered that he was in Flint's debt and had no idea what he was going to have to do to get of it.

Yet, Harry couldn't help but gulp in fear at the sheer size of him. He had seen Flint at school of course; it was pretty hard to miss the guy who towered over everyone, teacher and student alike. But you only had to ask any Hogwarts student, and they'd tell you exactly how unflattering the school robes were. And Flint's long baggy robes seemed to have done everything to conceal the lean muscled body Harry was looking at right now.

Harry rubbed his eyes as Flint coughed, trying to get his attention. A knowing smirk was hidden in Flint's glowing blue eyes. 'I'm headed out now – I'll go with you.' A corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

A spark of anger rose, his sharp tongue about to fire out a retort, when he realised he had to play nice. Likability. That's what the magnitude of the favour depended on. Obviously Flint wouldn't ask a friend to feed himself to his pet dragon because he ran out of dragon food … Would he? Harry shook his head, wondering at his bizarre thought as his eyes trailed back to the half finished Butterbeer he had left on the counter, and Butcher who was lazily wiping the counter with a filthy rag. There wasn't … Was there more alcohol in that than normal?

Clumsily, Harry slid off his barstool, staggering slightly as his feet hit the ground. His brow furrowed as he glanced at the ragged sleeve of Dudley's hoodie that concealed the bloodied bandage Blárréveur had placed on his wrist. Could it be that the amount of blood he had lost had affected him more than he had imagined? It had certainly rendered him weak enough to cause him light-headedness, though Harry had chosen to ignore that believing it to be mere hunger. And inducing alcohol on top of that … Well fuck. Wasn't he screwed.

Flint cleared his throat, and Harry jumped out of his daze. He had put on his cloak and was looking at Harry impatiently. 'Are you coming or what?'

'S-sure.' Harry stuttered, hating the amused stare he was receiving from Flint, and the hushed whispers starting up in the crowd who were beginning to come out of their shock, about the type of relationship Harry shared with Voldemort. Many were saying lovers, and it took all of Harry's strength not to turn round and give them a mouthful. To be with the man who murdered his parents … Harry would sooner take his own life.

Flint nodded, draining the last of his shot, and reached for his wand, before leaning in closely. His warm breath tickled Harry's ear, before he whispered softly, 'Follow my lead.' He pulled away, leaving only the trailing scent of firewhiskey in the air.

'Father.' Flint nodded at the older, chubbier version of himself, who sat stiffly next to Lucius Malfoy by the fire. Their appearance was almost exactly the same, bar the heavy wrinkles that betrayed his father's age, only his father's eyes betraying the fact they were two different people. A pale muddy brown, they stared superiorly down at their son, betraying nothing but cool disregard and arrogance. He gave a small nod of acknowledgement, barely dipping his chin, before returning his attention to Lucius.

Flint, obviously used to the treatment - though Harry honestly could not comprehend why anyone, even a Pureblood, would be quite to indifferent to their son – continued walking towards the first fireplace on the right.

Harry, who had been moving towards the door, stared bewilderedly at Flint, having been under the impression that they were leaving. He hovered by the door, frowning at Flint who was standing resolutely by the fireplace, and looking at Harry with an expression that seemed to doubt his intelligence. 'Potter,' his rough voice called, gliding over his name in such a way, Harry could have sworn his heart stopped beating. The moment was ruined somewhat, with how Flint was still looking at him like he had just escaped from an insane asylum … 'I thought you said you were coming.' Flint raised an eyebrow, before walking towards the third fireplace's flames.

Pulling back his shoulders, raising his chin, and his face returning to the hard mask Harry was used to seeing, Marcus Flint stepped into the flames and vanished.

Poof. Gone. Dead.

Unwillingly, a shriek escaped from Harry's lips. He had never liked Flint, and perhaps it would be a good thing if he died, given that it would free him from his Oath, however Harry wasn't such an evil person that he would allow a man to burn to death. He ran forward, determined on saving Flint from dying a horrible demise. Except, when he reached the third fireplace, no one was there …

He glanced around at the other wizards, desperate for help. Yet they were acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, although they were wearing looks that questioned his sanity.

Harry hovered by the fire place, unsure of what to do. Had Flint just … killed himself?

Well, he knew Slytherins were messed up and all, but … He grimaced, unsure of what to do. He couldn't help but feel like a sore thumb standing there without an ally while all the Death Eaters gawked at him. If it was with anyone else, Harry would have screeched at them for not helping Flint, but his goal was to get out of there _alive_.

Not to be delivered in bits and pieces to Dumbledore.

Fearing the worst, Harry glanced down at the floor of the room for ashes – Flint's remains – and he couldn't help but give a sigh of relief when he saw none.

* * *

><p>Lucius Malfoy was Pureblood society's elite. The proud son of Abraxas Malfoy, he had received nothing but the finest education in everything from the noble Dark Arts to pathetic Light Magic. It wasn't arrogance that caused him to label himself as the best of the best, with the exempt of the Dark Lord of course, it was the truth. So when his instincts – which had never led him wrong in the past – told him that Harry Potter was most certainly <em>not<em> a Death Eater, despite the fact the boy had somehow gained the trust of all his acquaintances, he trusted them.

He studied Harry Potter, his pale mercury eyes calculating, as he watched the brunette's movements. He was much too clumsy, too caring and most definitely too raw to be a Death Eater. No one could survive in the Dark Lord's circle if they wore their heart on their sleeve. Especially not _Harry_ _Potter_, whose very name was considered a sin in Death Eater society.

It made him wonder exactly what Potter was skilled at. Draco told of Potter's below average skills as a wizard, and the boy would have to be phenomenal at magic to cause the Dark Lord to believe his arch nemesis was worthy of carrying the Dark Mark, let alone into marking Dumbledore's Golden Boy. Involuntarily, his eyes shifted to Bellatrix. While skilled with a wand, it had been rumoured Lord Voldemort had valued her other … skills in the past.

Perhaps the Dark Lord had found a newer model.

Lucius was not a gay man – though he had nothing against them as long as they were not first born, or had produced an heir already so that their line would not die out - yet he knew when to appreciate beauty when he saw it.

The boy was undoubtedly one of the finest men Lucius had ever seen, though possessing such a feminine and delicate bone structure that he could never be called handsome. Beautiful was the only word that could describe Harry Potter, who possessed such exquisiteness; it was enough to tempt even the straightest man to venture into unknown territory. Perhaps it was the china doll complexion, the small lithe body or the untameable black hair that had tempted his Lord. Yet he was certain the Dark Lord, even if he had resisted everything else about the boy, would have been unable to resist his Avada Kedevra green eyes – the exact colour of his favourite curse. Not to mention the rumoured _Parseltongue_ ability which even Lucius envied, though of course he would never admit to being jealous of a _Half-Blood_.

Although Draco had always said that Potter and the Mudblood were very close … And his son, undoubtedly his most faithful spy, had never given him any indication Potter was homosexual.

He fingered his wand as the boy frantically scanned the room, watching but offering no help. After all, Lucius had spent many long years giving softly spoken support of the Dark Lord's cause in the Ministry, bribing Cornelius to put captured Death Eaters in low security vaults in Askaban to make I t easier to free them and giving money to the Dark Lord's cause. Not to mention enduring many a _Crucio_. He didn't care if he was wrong, and the boy really was a Death Eater; there was absolutely no way he would give some brat a hand-up just because of a bloody title. Beside, Lucius doubted if Potter complained about him to his Lord that he would be punished.

After all, he was Lord Malfroy, the Dark Lord's right hand man.

* * *

><p>'Scared, Potter?' Butcher's right eye swivelled round to look at him, his long scar gleaming silver in the dull light of the bar.<p>

Harry whirled round, eying the potential threat wearily, and his hand on his wand within his pocket.

'To go to Knockturn Alley.' Butcher's eye gleamed fondly at the mention of the place. 'Must be your first time, I reckon. I do remember my first time …' His eyes glazed, giving a rare smile as he got lost in memories of a time which must have been much happier than now. Joyful from the small reprieve, he offered some surprising help, 'You must be afraid to walk through the fire, but its fake, Potter. Only tickles you to check you're a Death Eater. It's quite like the Leaky Cauldron's,' he snarled, 'wall. But _we_ were here first – they stole that idea from _my_ fire!' Butcher snapped angrily, having obviously opened a can of worms.

Harry nodded, hesitantly approaching the fire. It was only a fake fire, not real. But the flames looked too gloriously crimson to be faked. Was it possible the flames would consume him? But all the Death Eaters were watching him now, wondering if the Boy Who Lived was really as fearless as they said. With slow, shaking steps he walked until he was right next to the fire, until barely a foot separated him from the snarling flames. Was it just him, or was the fire burning hot? He could have sworn a flame just jumped out to lick his leg, leaving a shadow of pain behind.

Biting his lip at the cold and judging stares he was receiving, particularly from Lucius, Harry jumped into the flames.

As he swirled around from fireplace to fireplace, narrowly avoiding bumping his head on several walls, and jumping out too soon, Harry wondered whether it really would have been less bother to have just been burnt by the fire. He had always hated Floo, which after all Butcher's build-up seemed to be all the fireplace could do. He snorted, and coughed as he inhaled a cloud of ash from a fire he passed. The magic of the Floo pushed him out into cool air – and what he hoped was not a burning fireplace - and right on top of the shoes of Marcus Flint.

They were awfully shiny, Harry thought as he coughed and spluttered ash from his lungs. The kind of black gentleman's shoe that an old fashioned grandfather might wear with a top hat and a time piece. Not what he would have expected of a young teenager, entering his sixth year at Hogwarts. Although, perhaps considering his own scruffy hoodie and jeans, maybe Harry wasn't the best judge.

A cough brought his attention back up to where Flint stood, looking down at Harry with a frown of disapproval that only Slytherins could pull off, though his blue eyes glittered with amusement. 'Get up, Potter.' Flint glanced around, wary of anyone seeing them together. 'Now.' He hissed, eying an old man who had looked in their direction.

With one last, gut-wrenching cough, Harry heaved himself to his feet, eyeing what appeared to be the mythical creatures section of a deserted bookstore. Picking up the closest book, with the thought that Hagrid's birthday was coming up, Harry grimaced at the title. With a horrified shudder, he slipped '_Caged Dogs'_ back on the shelf, feeling the image of two werewolves fighting– one of whom looking uncomfortably familiar – being burned into his brain forever.

Flint glanced at the cover, the amusement leaving his eyes, and replaced with a flicker of another. He quickly concealed his emotions under the cool mask he constantly wore that Harry was beginning to hate just as much as the Slytherin. 'You have soot on your glasses.'

Harry grimaced, pulling the crooked black frames from his face to examine the smudged black marks on the glass. He had just assumed it was just side effects of his dizziness, or perhaps a part of the book. Slowly, he unravelled the rolled up sleeve of Dudley's jumper – a long process, given Dudley's recent upgrade to XXL – to clean the lens.

He quickly put his glasses back on, disliking his blurred surroundings and the vulnerable position he was put in without them.

'Ready?' Flint growled impatiently.

Harry glanced up at him, confused. 'For what exactly?' Surely the Slytherin wasn't going to make him repay his favour already?

'I require you to be _alive_ to do the favour I need from you.' Harry gulped; the Slytherin already knew what Harry had to do to repay him. As much as Harry hoped it wouldn't be more than doing Flint's homework for a month, fate had never been kind to him. 'In order for that to happen,' the Slytherin continued, 'we need to make you a Death Eater.'

A rush of anger rose in Harry's chest, his magic crackling around him as his fury flared. 'I will _never_ be a fucking Death Eater, you dick! That bastard killed my family!'

Flint smirked at Harry's reaction, though his eyes were serious as they considered the aura of magic that had surrounded Harry. 'Before you get your Gryffindor,' he spat as if it were the worst insult in history, 'knickers in a twist, I meant we need to make you look like one. Although, it won't help if you don't _act_ like one.'

Harry frowned, his temper calming as he considered Flint's words. It was true – his little speech in the bar had been as Gryffindor as you could get, and it was honestly a miracle anyone had believed he was a Death Eater in the first place. It was the opposite of any Slytherin ideals, where subtlety, cunning and a lack of emotion were valued above all. To think that he had literally confessed his feelings, shown emotion and had absolutely no foresight to think of how what he was saying would affect him in the future … Harry was truly lucky he had gotten out alive.

'What do I need to do?' Harry demanded, ready to do anything that would keep him alive.

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:<span> Before you just story alert, or ex your window, please review! I spent most of today and yesterday doing this chapter so please take a second! Reviews actually make day, I do not care if you flame me! :D **

**Also, if I get enough reviews, I might just put the next chapter out tomorrow! It is most certainly NOT a filler!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Shadowed Pain**

**Summary: **He never meant for them to hate him, to curse his name, and the day he was born. They turned on him first, and he did what he had to do. Harry Potter never meant to fall in love, or to become the most feared necromancer. They made him what he was.

**Timing:** The story starts in Harry's fifth year, on Christmas Day. For the purpose of the story, Marcus is only a year above him.

**Disclaimer**: I'm clearly not JK Rowling, and I take no credit for the world she has made, nor any characters originally created by her, only for the few I have created by myself.

* * *

><p><strong>AN : Hope you guys all had a great Easter! :)<strong>

**Apologies about the three alerts for the last chapter – I had deleted the chapter holding my AN and immediately afterwards uploaded chapter 5, which completely confused Fanfiction. **

**Anyway, this chapter holds a bit more action that the last few. It adds some more characters, and doesn't completely focus on Harry.**

* * *

><p>When he had asked Flint what he needed to do, he had expected the Slytherin to enrol him in a Dark Arts course, teach him how to mask his emotions, or even just to hand him a pile of books to memorise.<p>

What he did not expect, was to be dragged into Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions to buy a whole new wardrobe. He watched, as gobsmacked as the Death Eaters were in Butcher's, Flint flit around feeling the quality of the fabrics and discussing the colours that would go best with his skin tone with Madam Malkin and her assistant.

Harry couldn't help but wonder if Flint was gay. Perhaps it was because Flint was talking enthusiastically about how a peaked lapel – whatever the hell that was – would bring out his eyes …

To be honest, Harry didn't know why Flint cared so much about the cut of his robes. Harry hated clothes shopping, and avoided it like the plague. Since his introduction to the wizarding world, he had bought robes three times, and each time he had hated it. It was so embarrassing when they took your measurements, and why the hell did they constantly 'accidently' prick you with pins?

In any case, Harry was allowed no say in it, and, as all men – with the exception of Flint apparently - do in a clothes shop, he quickly grew bored and retired to the nearest seat. As his mind drifted elsewhere, he remembered when he had first entered the wizarding world Hagrid had brought him here, and he had met Draco Malfoy for the first time. As Harry thought of the boy's snootiness that had repulsed him so much at the time, he wondered at the irony that it was the exact image he was attempting to copy.

'Potter.' Harry glanced up at Flint who was holding a robe bearing the Hogwarts Crest on them. 'Try this on.'

Had Flint gone mental? 'I have Hogwarts robes already …'

'Yeah, and they look like a fucking Mudblood's.' Madam Malkin froze, the beaming expression she had been shining at her new favourite customer fading as she realised exactly who he was. 'Try these on.'

'Fine,' Harry grumbled, swiping his hand out to grab the robes, and glaring at Madam Malkin's affronted expression.

He ambled into the changing room, too disgruntled to bother attempting to act dignified like a Death Eater, and slid out of his old clothes. Despite his irritation, Harry couldn't help but agree that compared with the soft and undoubtedly expensive material of his new robes, his old robes were wretched.

He stepped out, in a slightly better mood than before and Madam Malkin beamed appreciatively. 'They look wonderful on you, dear. You were right,' she smiled at Flint, 'The peaked lapel really brings out his eyes.'

Harry smiled, glancing at Flint to see whether he agreed. The Pureblood shrugged, 'It's alright.'

'Would you just come here, and I'll hem those robes for you?' The assistant smiled at him.

Harry clumsily walked forward, the long robe trailing after him. Raising her needle to stitch the hem, the assistant froze. 'Is … That _blood_?' She asked, her chocolate eyes wide with concern as she stared at the crimson liquid dripping down Harry's hand .

'_ON MY FINEST ROBES_?' Madam Malkin screeched, having the opposite reaction of her assistant.

Harry paused, frozen in shock as he realised the open, gaping sleeves of the robe made the bandage Blárvéurr had dressed his arm in, visible. It could have been alright, given that his skin was almost as pale as the bandage, if it wasn't for the fact the herbs Blárvéurr had so carefully applied seemed to have worn off, and the wound had reopened with ghastly effects. Although the bandage hid the wound from Harry's scrutiny, blood had seeped from the wound through the bandage, and was currently running down Harry's fingertips.

He didn't know what to say, and he looked to Flint, hoping for guidance. What he saw was not encouraging. The Pureblood looked so utterly shocked, horrified and disgusted at the sight of blood that Harry wondered if Gryffindors really did have it all wrong about all Slytherins being practitioners of Dark magic.

Harry bit his lip, awkwardly wondering if they would believe him if he said it was ketchup …

'No.' Harry shook his head, trying to look as innocent as he could, though Flint's face seemed to be growing paler than ever. 'It's … ketchup.' Harry shrugged internally, figuring it was worth a shot. Wait, did Flint even know what ketchup was? He was a wizard after all, and Ron hadn't even known what electricity was. Looking up at Flint's face, Harry figured an explanation was in order. 'Ketchup's like this tomato sauce Muggles-'

'Muggles use on food. Fuck's sake, Potter, I know what bloody _ketchup_ is.' Harry nodded thoughtfully, feeling his opinion of Flint increasing. He just hoped Flint would believe him when he said it was ketchup. Trying to look as innocent as a butterfly – which weren't very innocent, Harry decided, remembering his terrible fear of them – he began shifting his sleeve, trying to hide the bandage from the sharp blue eyed gaze.

Madam Malkin seemed to be having some sort of heart attack as she gazed at the growing stain his 'ketchup' was making in her finest robes. 'You're paying for those robes, young man.' She growled, her voice weak with horror. Her assistant looked on in sympathy.

And maybe it was Harry's imagination, but Marcus seemed to be getting some colour back. He was looking kind of pinkish, purple now, Harry decided. Like his uncle when he was angry …

Oh shit. The ketchup lie had _so_ not worked.

Harry sighed, readying himself for the blow because he lied. Uncle Vernon made it worse if he tried to fight him. Bowing his head to make it easier for the sixth year, Harry bit his lip. As always, his shoes became very interesting as he braced himself for the blow, trying to absorb his mind so much into the study that he could not physically feel the pain of the blow.

Huh. Had he finally done it? He didn't feel the strike, so then … was he finally a master of his own body? Had he finally succeeded in separating his body from his mind? A grin spread across his lips, as he raised his hand to feel the bump where he assumed Flint hit him. Only to find the usual messy black hair knotted between his fingers. Harry frowned, emerald eyes looking up at Flint questioningly.

The sixth year in question was also frowning. At Harry.

Flint had deep furrows between his brows, his powdered blue eyes narrowed into slits because he was studying Harry so hard. To Harry, what he was doing made no sense, and for the life of the Boy Who Lived, Harry couldn't say what Flint was thinking.

Flint stared at Harry for a long time, his eyes glazed as if he was a long way away. But from the set of his mouth, Harry knew that whatever he was reliving wasn't a happy memory. And the pain that darkened his eyes seemed to be so awful that Harry wished he could wipe it all away. Only when the pain was a shadow beneath Flint's carefully erected mask, did he begin to observe Harry again. And it was only then, after what felt like hours Alley that Flint spoke.

'Well … I guess we'd better pay for those robes.' Flint said, his voice colder, more detached that it had been in the tavern.

Harry nodded, anything to get away from the awkwardness of the situation. Yet, as he felt in the pocket of his trousers, he realised a fundamental flaw to his escape route. 'I … don't have my key. It's at … I left it at where I'm staying.' Harry corrected himself, unsure of what to call Aunt Marge's house other than 'hell'.

Madam Malkin looked livid.

'Where you're staying.' Flint repeated, his eyes glancing down at Harry's bloodied arm, before slowly travelling up to his face. Scrutinising his body for injuries, watching Harry to make a false move, or worse to admit to something.

Harry could have laughed out loud. He had been forced to live with the Dursleys for fifteen years, and no one, no matter how much he had wished, had realised that the Dursleys mistreated him. Not even anyone at Hogwarts. And the one injury that they hadn't inflicted on him? A _Slytherin_ had noticed it. And thought his relatives had caused it!

Harry honestly didn't know how he landed himself in these situations, but he couldn't help but laugh at the pure irony of it.

Of course, Harry had confided in people who he thought he could trust. Told them what the Dursleys did, asked them for food to keep him going through the Summer. And one of the greatest things that had hurt him, one of the things Harry didn't think he could ever forgive, was when Ron and Hermione had revealed that in an interview to the Daily Prophet. _'He used to ask us for food during the summer because he said the Dursleys – that's his relatives - apparently wouldn't feed him ... He said that they beat him … No, obviously he was lying. Trying to get some attention, while stuffing his fat gob with more food ...'. _

It had been rather enlightening seeing that front page of the daily prophet. Enlightening him with the realisation that he could trust no one. If Hermione and Ron could betray him like that, his only friends, then Harry couldn't help but wonder what Flint would do if he knew the horrors he had undergone, the pain he had suffered, and the horrible childhood he had experienced. Flint could not know. Even if the Slytherin did nothing with the information, Harry could imagine the pitiful stare he would receive, and pity was one thing Harry couldn't bear.

'Where is it exactly you're staying, Potter?' Flint asked, as if he was making polite small-talk, but Harry could hear the small inflection of curiosity in his voice. And he was sick of being everyone's favourite topic for gossip. He could just imagine Flint when he got home, telling all his friends about Harry Potter's secret.

'That's a good question, Flint.' Harry replied, in a voice just as friendly. 'But I'd rather not have Death Eaters barging into where I'm staying at four in the morning.'

'Last I heard, you were living with your relatives.' Flint replied, his voice cool but confident, knowing he had the upper hand with that little tid-bit of knowledge.

'Then I guess you heard wrong.' Harry said, stepping forward until they were almost nose to nose. 'Why the interest, Flint? See something you like?' Harry mocked, trying to get the trail of his family.

'You mean the social leper of the school?' Flint snarled, instantly on the defense. 'I'd rather date a _Mudblood_.' He drew out the last word, dripping it in contempt, as he took another step forward.

Harry stared into Flint's narrowed blue eyes, daring him to say another word. Harry could feel his own magic rising, swirling around them in a cloud of anger. Emerald eyes flashed, daring Flint to say another word.

'Besides,' Flint continued, blue eyes lit in answer to Harry's challenge, 'you like Blood Traitors, don't you Potter? Though, it seems they don't like you, do they?'

Harry could feel his eyes narrowing, a knot rising in his throat and tears threatening, but he refused to give to the temptation to break down and let Flint win.

Harry swallowed, 'If you think you're going to win by stating the obvious, you're wrong.'

'So you admit it, then? You have no one. Not a single person to shed a tear at your funeral. No one who will mourn your death.'

'Isn't that the most dangerous enemy?' Harry smirked, his chest no longer tight with hurt. He was finally realizing that maybe the pity party he was throwing was wrong. Maybe it was a good thing he had no one because it meant Voldemort couldn't use them against him. It meant that they would be safe.

He smirked up at Flint, 'I am the only person in this war who has nothing to lose.'

* * *

><p>His steps echoed throughout the silver hallway as he rushed through it; almost running, but not quite.<p>

The Death Eaters he passed wore expressions of astonishment as they saw him, too shocked at his appearance to hide their emotions under an indifferent mask. His appearances at the Dark Lord's various manners were rare, and he was never anything but calm, cool and collected.

Or at least he never appeared to be, for they knew neither his voice, his identity nor his face; never had he spoken to them for he worked solely for his Master and cared little for the Dark Lord's irksome followers. They knew him solely for his golden cloak; for the Death Eaters it was merely a colour, a mark that he held a higher position and thus allowed to wear something other than the uniform black robe. They knew nothing of the significance his golden cloak held for the minority who knew of even a fraction of its meaning.

He had never been down this corridor, though he knew each of the Dark Lord's manners like the palm of his hand for only a fool walked into an ally's territory without careful studying of the blueprints. Usually, he Apparated inside the Dark Lord's private rooms, but today his Master had ordered the use of no magic; to use would alert Them of his presence. Instead, he had been forced to travel by non-magical means, though he found the ordeal terribly unpleasant.

The Death Eaters knew only of his existence, and the fact that he spoke only with the Dark Lord. They gossiped extensively amongst themselves upon who he was, and how he had gained the privilege of such undivided attention. He had never intended on them seeing him, spotting weaknesses they could exploit, and of course there was always the risk of attack.

Yet, there was no time to be cautious, no time to spare, for at any moment They would come, and they would kill him for doing what his master was attempting. It was too urgent to remain hidden from the Death Eaters, so urgent that he didn't even bother to fix his hood so that it securely covered his face. Keeping his identity concealed was a matter of far less importance than the fate of the world.

And that was exactly what his Master was doing – through him. Supplying Voldemort with information necessary that would set events in motion.

His pace increased as his mind reminded him of how little time he had before They received word of what his Master was doing. The crowd of Death Eaters parted readily for him, fearing what vengeance their Lord had promised them if they ever laid a hand on him.

He turned down the corridor, turned left and arrived at the Dark Lord's personal chambers. Undoubtedly Voldemort had been alerted to his presence by now, for countless Death Eaters would have scurried to tell their Lord as soon as he had arrived on the grounds in the hope that it would grant them some favour with the man they both revered and feared.

He gave a swift knock on the heavy oak door, his finger tracing the oak longingly as he thought of another. Shaking his head at the thought, he barely waited for the soft 'Enter' that granted him admission into the Dark Lord's private chambers.

Pushing open the door, his eyes quickly sped around the room; searching for any sign of a threat. It was a large room, with high ceilings, which made it difficult for him to ensure there was nothing planted to harm him. The walls, typically painted green, were bare, for the Dark Lord was so paranoid he feared even portraits spying on him. A large fireplace took up one wall, unlit which was unfortunate given it was the sole light source. A leather armchair was placed in front of a large black desk at the other end of the room, cluttered with scraps of paper, ink and important documents. Two wide metal cases took up the bulk of the remaining walls, each displaying various invaluable trinkets the Dark Lord had picked up throughout his travels, through murders and grave robbing.

In the centre of the room stood the Dark Lord himself, clothed in a black cloak and allowing his hood to fall to add to the fear the blonde at his feet felt. Voldemort's snake like features were twisted into a snarl, his crimson eyes flashing as his wand fired another _crucio_ at who he believed was Lucius Malfoy, the Dark Lord's right hand man. His Master's spies had delivered a description of a man proud, rich and arrogant, and though the man on the floor before him seemed merely pitiful as he moaned in agony, the rings on the fingers that were curled into fists in an effort to refrain from screaming bore the Malfoy crest.

'Potter walks into a room filled with my Death Eaters, and remains _intact_?' The Dark Lord hissed at Lucius, a blue beam flying from his wand as he cast a non-verbal hex at the blonde. The Half- Blood continued speaking as blood poured from a wound in the Pureblood's chest, 'I dare say Lucius, that you will be lucky to escape my manor tonight alive.' His thin lips smiled, though there was only rage in the ruby eyes. 'You are in luck, however,' his gaze flickered towards him, 'that Laurent has shown up unexpectedly.' A silent spell hit the blonde in the chest, apparently knocking him out. He bent down to slide a finger against Lucius' wound, and smiled at his bloodied finger. 'For now,' the Dark Lord chuckled menacingly.

Voldemort wiped his finger on the blonde's clothes, and straightened his back from his crouch by Lucius' prone form, sliding his wand up his sleeve as he did so. The message was not lost on Laurent; he was not such a threat that the Dark Lord felt he needed to be on guard around him.

With long confident steps, like a cat approaching a mouse, Voldemort came to stand in front of Laurent, crimson eyes looking down at Laurent's green with a sense of superiority. They moved to study his form, like Laurent had his room, for any changes. Yet he would find none, Laurent knew, for he remained the same despite the months that had passed since he had last been sent to the Dark Lord. His black hair remained level with his chin, his eyes still the eerie green that disturbed even his Master, and his face still scarred by his father's sword. Though his small lithe form begged to take a fighting stance, for he knew from his Master what this man was capable of, Laurent forced his body to remain upright.

A hand grabbed his chin, forcing Laurent to meet the Dark Lord's eyes. 'To what do I owe the pleasure, that I receive Varðmaðr's messenger on Christmas day?'

His lips tightened, as he swallowed the rush of anger he felt at Voldemort's casual use of his Master's name. 'Since when has my Master ever been known to care for the present?' Laurent bit out, his soft French accent contrasting heavily with the Dark Lord's cruel baritone.

'I suppose that would be an odd trait for a Seer.'

The rush of anger resurfaced at Voldemort's disrespectful tone, and glaring at the Dark Lord, Laurent spat, 'I don't believe Dark Lord's should 'suppose' if they'd like to win a war.'

Crimson eyes narrowed, 'And I don't believe Seer's messengers should _suppose_ that I tolerate any disobedience from my followers. Perhaps your beloved Master is too lenient with you.'

Laurent saw red, 'My Master does you a favour by helping you at all, Tom. Don't _suppose_ that you can boss me around, or disrespect Him - for it's a mistake that may cost you my Master's obedience.'

Quicker than Laurent imagined, Voldemort's wand was out. With a flick of the Dark Lord's wrist Laurent was slammed against the fireplace, his head colliding heavily with the ceramic. His green eyes dilated with the pain, feeling the unpleasant sensation of blood tricking down his back from his head wound as Laurent reached for his wand. However, with a econd flick from the Half Blood's wand, Laurent was immobile.

A pale hand gripped his throat, the other pointed a wand to his heart. 'I dislike followers who try to talk back to me, as if they are equals with me on an intellectual level.' Crimson eyes studied him, 'You are far from my equal, Laurent. I tolerate you, for I respect your Master; but neither of you are my equals. I don't have an equal – and that is why I will become the ruler of this world.'

Fearful green eyes stared up at the Dark Lord, unable to think of a way to escape. He was immobile; there was no way for him to draw his wand, and even so his Master had ordered him to use no magic while he was here, for otherwise They would know what he had done.

Laurent could do nothing – he was at the Dark Lord's mercy, and he was content with that, so long as Voldemort would allow him to speak his piece so that he succeeded in his last mission for his Master. He struggled to speak the name that meant more to the Dark Lord than anything, 'Harry Potter.'

The pressure on his throat eased, though a wand remained pointed at his heart, 'What about him?' The Dark Lord asked, his crimson eyes alert. 'I don't see why he would mean anything to your Master.'

'He is the one the Prophecy speaks of. He was inducted today.'

The Dark Lord's aura, usually constrained tightly, expanded as the Dark Lord lost control of his magic in his rage. Laurent felt the spell that paralysed him lift, and had a moment of fear before his body slammed onto the hard wooden oak of the floor.

Breathing heavily, injured and bleeding, Laurent studied the Dark Lord's reaction to the news. His expression was hard to read, given that he was a Dark Lord, but compared to his Master's control of his face, Voldemort's was merely amateur. His clenched fists revealed his anger, his narrowed eyes his rage, his parted lips his shock. This was, as his Master suspected, new news to Voldemort, and it was news that would cause the Dark Lord to react in his Master's favour.

The Dark Lord turned away from Laurent, so that he could only see the back of Voldemort's form. Laurent narrowed his eyes at Voldemort's outline, knowing that his Master would never be so arrogant as to turn his back on anyone. 'The potion?' The Dark Lord asked, aware it was his last bit of hope.

'Turned golden. My Master says it is time for you to do as you promised.'

A growl escaped the Dark Lord's lips, and as he turned to Laurent - his eyes alight with madness, his lips turned up in a snarl, and his wand drawn – Laurent pondered at what he was about to sacrifice because of his Master. His life, for surely the Dark Lord was going to kill him in a fit of rage. His Master would have known, even as He sent Laurent out on his mission, that it was the last time they would ever see each other, yet Varðmaðr remained the same detached man he always was. Laurent had received no warning, had been unable to kiss his wife goodbye, nor his children farewell. Would they even receive his body, or would the Dark Lord have his followers burn it?

He didn't believe his Master would reveal to his daughters how he truly died; delivering a message which would save Harry Potter's life, and thus their world. Yet, Laurent knew that he loved his Master more than anything, and it mattered more to him that his Master knew what he had sacrificed. So long as his Master realised he died a Hero, not even using magic to defend himself as per his orders, Laurent was content.

The Dark Lord raised his wand.

Laurent's golden cloak stained red.

* * *

><p>'I'm sorry for your loss.'<p>

Behind a black veil, that almost hid her face from the idiots Maman had invited to Papa's funeral, pale blue eyes glared at the sandy haired wizard.

Was it not enough that Papa was dead? Did Maman really have to invite hundreds of people to his funeral, and let them talk to her like they knew what she was going through?

Her father had been murdered by the Dark Lord, his body delivered home attached to a portkey and almost unrecognisable. His beautiful eyes had been torn out, his dark hair matted with blood and there wasn't an inch of his body that hadn't been wounded. The worst part was the lack of warning; she had innocently been reading a book in an old armchair in the foyer. Then she heard the pop of a portkey and glanced up, to see a sight so horrible she wished could forget about it.

She saw it for only a second, but the image of her father taunted her for hours when she tried to sleep at night.

She didn't know why the Dark Lord had targeted her father – nobody did. The authorities had thrown around suggestions of course – perhaps her Papa had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe he was a random target, but the Aurors seemed to believe it was because he had married a Half-Breed – a woman whose mother was a Veela. Yet surely then it would have been her mother, her sister or herself that should have been targeted – not her Pureblooded father.

And no one seemed to be able to answer the question of _why_ her father had been in England in the first place. There was no way the Dark Lord had come all the way to France merely to kill him, so why had her father been in England? All his family, friends, and businesses were in France. He had only ever been to England once to support her, and he had despised every second of it.

But a stern glance from her mother reminded her that there were guests to greet, though she despised them all for their empty apologies, fake sympathy and most of all because they didn't understand that she didn't want to speak to them. All she wanted was to know what had happened to her Papa.

A small man appeared in front of her, his form lithe, thin, and simply stunning. His copper hair gleamed in the light of the chateau, his features the aristocratic beauty that spoke of good breeding and his green eyes were flecked with gold.

'Mademoiselle Delacour,' he smiled at her, reaching for her gloved hand and planting a soft kiss to her palm. 'My Master demands an audience with you.'

* * *

><p><strong>Please review! :) <strong>

**I spent the last four days on this chapter :(**

** Just a word will do, flames accepted! :D**


	7. Chapter 7

**Shadowed Pain**

**Summary: **He never meant for them to hate him, to curse his name, and the day he was born. They turned on him first, and he did what he had to do. Harry Potter never meant to fall in love, or to become the most feared necromancer. They made him what he was.

**Timing:** The story starts in Harry's fifth year, on Christmas Day. For the purpose of the story, Marcus is only a year above him.

**Disclaimer**: I'm clearly not JK Rowling, and I take no credit for the world she has made, nor any characters originally created by her, only for the few I have created by myself.

**AN: Happy May Day to everyone! I don't know if you guys do that in America, but we do in Ireland, and most parts of Europe … I think :P I myself shall be enjoying the day off school tomorrow, though my mother certainly won't as she's running the marathon :P A good luck to any Irish who're running it too! **

**Heads up, updates may be somewhat slow for a while as exam season is upon us … I'll try to keep them as frequent as possible, though if people reviewed instead of just alerting – constructive criticism appreciated! – it would definitely serve as encouragement to continue. ;)**

**Still, future kind of depends on these, and to anyone who's a maths genius I envy you, because I'm almost certainly going to fail it. :P **

**Anyway enjoy! And as always, **_**PLEASE**_** review :D **

* * *

><p><em>There are many things hidden in the shadows of our world, things that wish for nothing but our destruction. It is human nature to ignore these, to pretend they don't exist. I tell you now; do this, and you'll find certain death.<em>

_**The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self Protection. **_

_***Quentin Trimble***_

* * *

><p><strong>December 28<strong>**th**** 2003, **_**Chateau Delacour**_

Numerous times, when Fleur had been the curious adventurer we all were as children, her Papa had drilled into her the importance of never trusting strangers. Her bedtime stories usually consisted of horrifying monsters that lured away little girls from their beds with softly spoken words, sweet promises and talk of a better life. In the numerous tales her father told her, never once had the little girl been able to reject the thought of a better life, and each time she had willingly left with the monster, unbeknownst to her death.

Her father would end the tail, with a gruesome death for the little girl, and Fleur would whisper the promise she made every night to her Father, '_I will never trust a stranger_.' Her father would smile then, kiss her on the cheek, and with a whispered _nox_ he'd be gone to recite the same story to Gabrielle.

Through the wall that separated Fleur's room from Gabrielle's, Fleur often heard her sister crying at night, screaming and thrashing around in the bed as she tried to get away from the latest monster Papa had told them of. To Fleur this made no sense, and she frequently told her sister that. 'If the little girl is stupid enough to trust the monster in the first place, why shouldn't she die?' That had made her Papa smile and nod in agreement, though it did nothing to assuage her sister's fear of fictional monsters.

'Mademoiselle Delacour,' the beautiful man in front of her smiled, reaching for her gloved hand and planting a soft kiss to her palm. 'My Master demands an audience with you.'

As Fleur stared down into his speckled green eyes, she wondered whether if she went with him to visit his Master she would become just another 'stupid little girl' that men like her Papa would tell their daughters about at night in the hope that they would learn from her mistake.

Yet, as she glanced down at the tanned hand that gripped her own, she felt something she hadn't felt in a long time. Since her Papa's death, she had walked around in a haze of pain; unsure how to function without her father to love her unconditionally, teach her and guide her into becoming the very best witch she could be. However, for a split second she felt an emotion she hadn't felt in a long time. No matter how fleeting, Fleur felt it.

Hope.

* * *

><p><strong>December 25<strong>**th**** 2003, rural England**

'_Rennervate_.'

Lucius Malfoy blinked unwillingly into consciousness; the agony revealed on his face testament to his Lord's torturing ability. His limbs were on fire, his mind was weak and his body was sticky with the blood that pooled around him. A mixture of sweat and blood ran down his face, marring the unique perfection that belonged to the Malfoy line. He shook from cold, tears pooled in his eyes, and in his fevered mind he wondered why it was he felt more afraid for his life with the Dark Lord than he had in front of the Wizengot fifteen years ago when he desperately lied - in front of all his enemies that yearned for his death - he had merely been under the Imperious curse and he would never chose to be a Death Eater.

His blurred vision gradually sharpened, and it was with horror he crimson eyes inches from his face. A bony finger touched his face, coming away in coated in blood, sweat and tears. Lucius watched in horror as his Lord put his finger into his lipless mouth, sucked and smiled an eerie smile that Lucius knew from experience meant no good.

'Don't lie there like a common Mudblood, Lucius.'

More tears escaped from his grey eyes at the thought of even attempting to sit up, but Lucius was well aware it was an order, and to disobey an order meant certain death. He yelped as he put his weight on a broken wrist to force himself upright, and wounds that begun to scab over opened once more. The pounding in his head grew worse, his body was on fire, and he couldn't help but vomit.

All of this was watched by a merciless Lord, his crimson eyes cold but for a hint of amusement hidden amongst their depths.

Lucius gagged, his mouth sour with the taste of bile. In the darkness of the Dark Lord's office, he frantically searched for his Lord, but his sight was so blurred from pain and blood loss that he could see nothing but darkness.

'Now, now Lucius …' The Pureblood's head snapped up, staring at the corner he was sure the voice had come from. 'What would Abraxas say if he could see you now? I suppose I could name a few adjectives – pathetic, disgraceful, disgusting …'

The Dark Lord face appeared only an inch from his own. His crimson eyes were lighted in sick pleasure, and the corners of his mouth were red with blood.

His blood.

'I almost wish he were here now to speak with you. He always was able to control you more with a single spiteful word than I can with hours of torture.' A lipless mouth curled up into a smile. 'That is one thing we have in common, you and I. We both wished for our Father's approval.' Grey eyes widened in surprise – it was rare the Dark Lord disclosed personal details. 'Yes, Lucius, you will find we have that in common. But unlike me, you're weak. You allowed your Father to continuously put you down,' even amongst his pain Lucius' anger flared, 'Myself … I murdered my father within minutes of meeting him.'

Lucius watched as his Lord stroked his cheek, 'I suppose I can grant you a few moments of knowing we are not in fact all that different, you and I … But soon, well,' the Dark Lord paused in stroking his cheek as he smirked, 'you may just find you forget you ever had this conversation. In fact … You may just forget a few conversations.'

Sharp nails raked down his face, and Voldemort gripped his chin in his hand; forcing Lucius to look him in the eyes. 'You are the only person who had doubts Harry Potter was a Death Eater, yes?'

Lucius struggled to keep his eyes from narrowing, unsure what the Dark Lord's motives were. He had several cuts along his throat, and it was a voice hoarse with pain he answered his Lord, 'I believe so. Many had doubts, but the boy's speech convinced them at least temporarily his allegiance lay with you.'

The Dark Lord nodded, crimson eyes transfixed on silver. From behind his back, the Dark Lord drew his wand with which just one short hour ago he had murdered Fleur Delacour's father, and he whispered a spell.

Lucius had just a moment to see the yew wand pointed at his face. His mind flew to Draco, to Narcissa, and he had only a moment to hope the Dark Lord would spare them, for it was not unusual after killing a follower, his Lord killed their family too as an example to the other Death Eaters. Even if they lived, how would Draco be able to manage the Malfoy estate by himself? There were so many thing Lucius put off teaching him; not wanting to burden his son. But there was nothing Lucius could do about that now, and he knew that Narcissa and the Blacks would do their best to prepare his son for his role as Lord Malfoy.

He closed his eyes – not wanting the last thing he saw to be the monstrous crimson eyes of his Lord – and envisioned Narcissa and Draco in his mind's eye as he waited for the killing curse that was about to come.

'_Obliviate_.'

* * *

><p><strong>December 29<strong>**th**** 2003, **_**Chateau Delacour**_

The last few people left the reception, waving goodbye and wishing the Delacours well. Dusk soon fell, accompanied by stormy clouds and an icy chill.

Apolline Delacour was a woman who loathed inaction, and the mere thought of sitting idle for months in mourning until wizarding society deemed it was acceptable for her to be out in the public eye was mind-blowingly boring. Therefore, dressed in black from head to toe – as was only proper etiquette for a Pureblooded widow in the months after her husband's death – she stepped out of _Chateau Delacour_, crossed the grounds to the Apparating point and swiftly vanished to the place she had taken refuge in many times throughout their ill-matched marriage.

Gabrielle, the mirror of her mother not only in body, but in mind also, had left her home several hours ago, to 'return some library books' to the local library. Her sister and mother, so enwrapped in their own lives, had yet to realise she had not returned.

* * *

><p>Fleur stared at her reflection in the mirror, watching as tears fell from her eyes, and her mascara ran; marring her perfect skin with streaks of black. Her lips were pale beneath their pink lipstick, and pressed tightly together so she wouldn't release the sobs that threatened to break free. The blush she had used since she was a little girl seemed wrong against her pallid skin, as if it belonged to a different person; a happier one. Her pastel blue robes seemed a constant reminder of blissful she had been in Beauxbatons. Her usual braid didn't feel right.<p>

Pale blue eyes stared intently into the mirror – had she changed? Were those wrinkles under her eyes? A crease in her forehead? Was that a grey hair in her head?

A single sob broke free from the prison of her lips, breaking the silence of her home.

She fell to her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Control left her, and almost animalistic sobs wracked her body.

Several hours later, the Grandfather Clock chimed eleven, its lit face illuminating a young girl in the middle of the room. Her long blonde hair hid her face, but it was not nearly long enough to hide the shallow pool of tears that surrounded her. Her voice was hoarse from sobbing, her hair was matted with tears, and her eyes were red from crying.

Shakily, Fleur stood up, using what little strength she had left not to look into the mirror. It hurt too much to see the evidence of how broken she had become, of how much she had lost. She had tried to hide it by wearing what she usually wore, putting a pale pink ribbon in her hair, and doing her make-up as she usually did. She had gone through the motions of her daily routine, motions she had went through a thousand times – yet no longer did they feel right. What did it matter which colour of bow she wore, what colour of eye shadow would make her eyes pop out, which dress would make her look slimmest? It no longer made a difference – anyone who looked at her would no longer see an innocent girl, fresh from Beauxbatons.

That girl was gone, replaced by a woman who knew pain, and had let it break her.

Fleur sighed, grabbing a wash cloth and rubbing off the remnants of her make-up. With a shaking hand, she tore the bow from her hair and undid her braid, before grabbing her father's hunting jacket.

Tonight was the night the messenger had told her to meet his Master, and through a numb mind Fleur wondered how long into the story it was before the stupid little girls realised they had made a mistake. Certainly the concern for her safety had not been assured by the small beautiful man who had acted as messenger between herself and his Master.

_A corner of her mouth twisted into a smile, a gesture she had been entirely unfamiliar with in the last three days. 'When?' Fleur Delacour asked, watching as his mysteriously pale green eyes lit with happiness. A small smile, matching hers, appeared on his face, and the dimples that appeared in his cheeks as a result only added to his beauty._

'_At midnight tonight, go to the forest surrounding your house. He will meet you there. Come alone, and tell no one – or He will not come at all.'_

_With a parting bow, the messenger disappeared into the crowd, leaving Fleur to make insincere conversation with the irritating guests her mother invited._

The forest that had surrounded her home had always been a place that terrified both her, her mother and her sister. The idea of potentially life threatening creatures living in such close quarters with them was horrifying, and she wasn't ashamed to admit that while the fictional stories her Papa told her left her laughing at the foolishness of the little girl, the very real possibility of being eaten alive by the creatures that dwelt within the forest had been a reoccurring theme in her few nightmares. She knew it was the same with her mother and sister, and Fleur had often wondered, if it was something to do with their Veela heritage for they were magnificent creatures of the sky – not of a dark dreary forest.

Yet the fear that gripped her heart was doing nothing to stop her from meet this 'Master', rather it was the reason she was going. Since her Father's death Fleur had felt nothing but pain, and she gladly welcomed fear into her heart. Anything was better than wallowing in her own self-pity.

With a heavy heart, she walked through the vast grounds that surrounded her home, until she came to the edge of the forest. Fleur stood there for what felt like hours, waiting silently for someone to come. If she was honest with herself, she was hoping a majestic hero would out from the forest on a unicorn and save her from her troubles. Yet her darker side - the part of herself she hated – had become more and more a part of her since her father's death, and it dismissed the remnants of her ignorant blissful life with a snort.

Time ticked slowly by, marked by the occasional pitter-patter of an animal's footsteps, the sway of the trees in the harsh wind and the soft whines of the animals that dwelt within the forest. There was no footsteps indicating the 'Master' had arrived, and there definitely wasn't any sound of hooves on the forest floor.

Fleur sat down against a tree, her red rimmed eyes closing as she began to dose off.

_She was on a roof._

_That much she knew, though Fleur wondered how she had gotten there for one of her greatest secrets was her desperate fear of heights. She couldn't imagine her subconscious would be so cruel to take her to a roof on one of the few dreams she had ever had, just a few days after her father's untimely death. _

_Curious of her surroundings, Fleur looked around. The roof was … well a roof. Flat, grey … Not much to comment on. What was interesting was not the roof, but the figure lying beside her that was curled into a ball. As she watched, crimson liquid that could only be one thing stained through his golden cloak._

_Fleur only knew one person with a golden cloak. _

_She sprinted forward; faster than she had ever ran in her life, to the writhing body that was her Papa, Desperate to help him, she reached out to apply pressure to the wound on his back. _

_As soon as she touched him, Fleur saw black, and the scene changed._

_She was walking along a hallway, directly behind her Papa, who as always wore his golden cloak. Around her were men, woman and children; all wearing the same simple white mask. As soon as they saw her father they parted readily for him – their expressions fearful. Fleur wondered at that, for even in France stories had spread of the ghastly group of people whose leader was the Dark Lord. Why would Death Eaters be afraid of her father? The even more pressing question rose – why was her father here in the first place, in what must be the Dark Lord's manor? _

_Fleur ran forward, desperate to speak with her father – to understand – and filled with so many questions. But though she tapped her father on the shoulder, slapped his face and screamed at him, he never turned, nor gave even the slightest indication he had heard her. The Death Eaters never looked at her – one even walked through her – and Fleur was quickly coming to the conclusion something was very much wrong. _

_As they turned a corner and her Papa knocked on the heavy oak door, Fleur wondered at what exactly she was witnessing. It all seemed too real; too vivid and accurate to merely be a figment of her imagination, which raised the question then of what she was watching._

_As a smooth voice intoned, 'Enter' Fleur wondered if Lord Voldemort realised he was not only letting in her Papa, but his daughter too. Unlike her father, who little cared about the man being tortured by the Dark Lord, Fleur ran to him intent on helping. Yet, no matter how hard she tried to press her hands against his wounds and stop the bleeding, each time her hands past right through._

_Fleur turned away from him as the Dark Lord stunned him, the knowledge she could do nothing to save him heavy in her heart. Yet in front of her was her father, and she greedily watched him, knowing this was her last chance to see him whole. Her only chance to say goodbye to the man she had loved more than anyone._

_The Dark Lord's hand grabbed Papa's chin, and Fleur restrained herself from attacking Voldemort; knowing she would merely go straight through him. 'To what do I owe the pleasure, that I receive __Varðmaðr's messenger on Christmas day?'_

_Fleur frowned, watching as Papa's face lit with anger; an emotion she had very rarely seen him with. 'Since when has my Master ever been known to care for the present?' _

_Her eyes widened with shock. Could it be that the Master she was meant to meet tonight was the Master her father spoke of? Why had her father never told her? Fleur had always believed she and her father held a special connection; a rare understanding of each other. It had been a relationship much more pure, private and precious than any other she had ever been in. A million thoughts raced through her head, and she bit back a fresh round of tears as a lump rose in her throat._

'_I suppose that would be an odd trait for a Seer.' Fleur's eyes widened further, the uncharacteristic display of emotion proof of her shock. Seers were unheard of, fantasy – her father had told her so himself. The painful feeling of betrayal grew in her chest as watched her father through vision blurred with tears._

'_I don't believe Dark Lord's should 'suppose' if they'd like to win a war.'_

_Crimson eyes narrowed, 'And I don't believe Seer's messengers should suppose that I tolerate any disobedience from my followers. Perhaps your beloved Master is too lenient with you.' Fleur wondered at this, curious at her father's ranking. Had he merely been a messenger? The same ranking as the beautiful man that had instructed Fleur to meet his Master at midnight in the forest?_

'_My Master does you a favour by helping you at all, Tom. Don't suppose that you can boss me around, or disrespect Him - for it's a mistake that may cost you my Master's obedience.'_

_Quicker than Fleur could see, Voldemort's wand was out. With a flick of the Dark Lord's wrist Papa was slammed against the fireplace, his head colliding heavily with the ceramic. His beautiful green eyes dilated with the pain, and with a second flick from the Half Blood's wand, Laurent was immobile._

_The rage that gripped Fleur's heart was stronger than she had ever felt before. The darker side of her mind, the one that she kept under tight locks, had broken free in her horror. For in the moment her Papa was slammed against the wall, she saw the fear in his beautiful eyes, and her heart became heavy with the very real knowledge she wasn't merely dreaming of her father; she was bearing witness to his death._

_She vowed, there and then, that she would get revenge on the man that called himself Lord Voldemort. Yet she no longer cared for his silly self-proclaimed title that people feared to even speak. To him he was her father's murderer – and Fleur refused to allow Papa's murderer to go unpunished._

_The pale hand that gripped Papa's throat did nothing to soothe Fleur's anger, increasing it to the point she no longer saw Voldemort but a haze of red, 'I dislike followers who try to talk back to me, as if they are equals with me on an intellectual level. You are far from my equal, Laurent. I tolerate you, for I respect your Master; but neither of you are my equals. I don't have an equal – and that is why I will become the ruler of this world.' _

_Fleur snorted to herself, knowing that no matter what it cost her she would be the one to defeat him. She would kill him – slowly, painfully._

_Just as Voldemort killed her Papa._

'_Harry Potter.' Fleur snapped her head to her father, unsure what relevance the name of the the scrawny little boy she had competed against could possibly have to her father._

'_What about him?' The Dark Lord asked, his crimson eyes alert. 'I don't see why he would mean anything to your Master.'_

'_He is the one the Prophecy speaks of. He was inducted today.'_

_And then Fleur was forced to watch as Lord Voldemort, as a result of the name of the Boy Who Lived proceded to torture her father into madness. Forced to watched, transfixed with horror, as the Dark Lord teared out her father's eyes, scarred his perfect face and eventually – but not before her father begged repeatedly for death – killed her father in a fit of rage._

_All because of Harry _fucking_ Potter._

_Fleur sobbed by her father's corpse, kneeling down to kiss his bloodied cheek. But just as her lips made contact with his skin, she felt herself being pulled away once more._

_She opened her eyes to find that she was on the roof once more, and once again she was not alone. _

_A man stood directly in front of her, the black mask he wore making his mad curly hair look even more crimson, even more like blood. He focused his eyes on her; and Fleur wondered when she had ever been more terrified. Fleur knew this was the moment, the time when she realised she truly was just another stupid little girl that men like her Papa would tell their daughters at night time in the hope they would not be like her. _

'_I've wanted to meet you for a very long time.' _

_His eyes were not blue, green or brown. They were not white._

_They were black. Completely and utterly black._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Review time!<strong>_

_**Leave a word, a face, a full stop, flame, constructive criticism …**_

_**Whatever floats your boat :P**_

_**Just leave something!**_

_**Don't just alert it, or ex it or what ever :P**_

_**Review! It will make my day, I can tell you that!**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary: **He never meant for them to hate him, to curse his name, and the day he was born. They turned on him first, and he did what he had to do. Harry Potter never meant to fall in love, or to become the most feared necromancer. They made him what he was.

**Timing:** The story starts in Harry's fifth year, on Christmas Day. For the purpose of the story, Marcus is only a year above him.

**Disclaimer**: I'm clearly not JK Rowling, and I take no credit for the world she has made, nor any characters originally created by her, only for the few I have created by myself.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I find this chapter awfully bitty, and I apologise for that. The thing is, however, some things have to established early on in this fic in order for events later on to make sense, so right now it may seem a little jumpy, but I dislike the idea of devoting a whole chapter to a seemingly inconsequential event, as I'm sure you do too. <strong>

**As I mentioned in the last chapter, it is exam season for me, and believe you me I need to revise. A lot. But they'll be over by mid-June, and then it'll be summer so they'll be quite frequent updates then. Hopefully about every week. **

**It's slightly shorter than normal, but as I said, I'm really meant to be revising as I'm writing this so … **

**On a happier note, SlytherinPrincess took her story down! I think – I'm not a computer wizard by any stretch! It doesn't come up when I search at least :P **

**Anyway, enjoy! And please review! **

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving."<strong>_

***Albert Einstein***

* * *

><p><strong>January 1<strong>**st****, **_**Aphrodite's Café , Diagon Alley**_

She hated men with long hair. She detested freckles. She loathed men who wore earrings.

To top it all off, Bill was a Weasley … and _proud_ of it.

When her Master had told her he had an important mission for her, Fleur had been quite apprehensive. The last time Papa had gone on a mission for Varðmaðr, Voldemort murdered him, and though with the death of her Papa, Fleur saw little point in life, she was terrified of dying.

It was perhaps ironic, though Fleur was unaware of it, that she shared that trait with the monster she despised, and the reasons behind their terror were remarkably similar.

Even Dark Lords know little of life death after death – if it indeed exists. Tom Riddle, as many do, feared death because he loathed the idea of inexistence, and though he poured through book after book combing each one for answers, even resorting to filthy Muggle books, he found no solid evidence that anything existed but this life.

Both Voldemort and Fleur feared death because of the loss of control that comes with it – humans, whether wizard or muggle, have no control over what happens after they die, and fear of being forced anywhere they didn't chose to go, terrified them.

Fleur resisted the urge to snarl as Bill placed his hand on hers, with a dazed smile. The Weasley was evidently stunned with his good luck, given that she was dozens of miles out of his league. Fleur was beautiful, and she knew it. No one could argue Bill was unattractive, but compared to Fleur he may as well have been Moaning Myrtle. Yet here she was, on a date with him.

As it turned out her mission wasn't remotely life-threatening, unless Bill carried some sort of infectious disease, though Fleur genuinely wouldn't be surprised if he did. Yet Charlie was in a dragon reserve, and Fleur would gladly pay a giant to stand on the irritation that was Percy Weasley. The other Weasleys were in still in school, and it was humiliating enough to date a Weasley without being labelled a paedophile.

Bill, as unfortunate as it was, had been the only option.

She had to move quickly of course, given that he worked as a Curse Breaker in Egypt and was only home for the holidays. An 'accidental' run-in in his favourite coffee shop, where quite coincidently she had been reading his favourite book. An avid conversation ensued, during which Fleur subtly employed some Veela magic to implant romantic feelings in his mind, and eventually – with much sweating and stuttering – he asked her out.

They had been on a few dates since, all incredibly boring and Bill remaining blissfully ignorant to her ulterior motives. She had secretly had a few laughs to herself that he genuinely thought she was attracted to him.

It had been a little too easy – a very simple, clichéd romance - and Fleur would admit to being a little disappointed. The chase had always been her favourite part of a relationship, though more so when she was the one being wooed.

Now that the chase was over, Fleur had to actually date him. That meant participating in other activities, sexual activities … with a _Weasley_. She shuddered at the thought, glad that Bill was conservative and firmly believed in no sex before marriage. It was hard enough to pretend she liked it when he held her hand, and the thought of his hand, or anything else … down there … almost made her physically sick.

But it would be worth it in the end, if it meant taking down Potter. She would destroy his life, with the aid of her Master, just as he destroyed hers. Fleur only wished she had taken the chance to kill him during the Twi-wizard Tournament, for her Master assured her had she acted then her father would still be alive. Yet, she hadn't known then – and neither had Varðmaðr – that Potter was the cause of her father's death.

Bill stroked her hand, jolting her from her thoughts, 'You okay?'

Fleur nodded, though admittedly she felt a little nauseated. What was he talking about again? It was something about his family, she was certain, but he had so many siblings it was hard to pretend to be interested when he recounted boring stories about all of them every five minutes. She hadn't met any of them, but from Bill's stories and the few she had seen around Hogwarts, she was certain repulsiveness was a trait that ran in the Weasley family.

Bill smiled at her, though Fleur wished he wouldn't - the Weasleys were evidently too poor to afford dental care. 'So, I know you might not want to … It's probably too soon, I guess. But my mum found out I was seeing you, and well … she wanted me to invite you to family dinner tonight.'

Fleur grinned, knowing how pleased Varðmaðr would be that things were finally falling into place. 'I would love to.'

Step one complete: _Infiltrate the Weasley family. _

Would it be rude to wear a _Bubblehead_ charm to dinner so she didn't have to breathe in the stench of Blood-traitors?

* * *

><p><strong>January 5<strong>**th****, Marge Dursley's home**

Talons flashed. A boy screamed. Blood stained the floor.

'_Fuck_!' Harry yelped, glaring at the grey eagle in front of him. A long, shallow cut marred his wrist, courtesy of the eagle perched haughtily on his windowsill.

The bird had flown in through his open window all of thirty seconds ago, and promptly deposited the package it held in its talons … onto Harry's head. Perhaps, given that it was a relatively light package, he had had a slight over-reaction. Certainly it hadn't been so painful to warrant him screaming like a mad man at the eagle to get out and die. Even still, the eagle attacking him in a fit of revenge had taken things a little too far.

Harry had half mind to whip out his wand, and start practicing some Unforgivables. Age restriction be damned.

Hedwig's reproaching stare reminded him of his manners, and he gingerly offered the eagle an owl treat. With an arrogant sniff that suggested Eeylops Owl Emporium's '_Finest Owl Treats'_ were of inferior quality, the eagle denied it.

With a shrug, Harry turned to the lumpy package that had fallen onto the floor. He hadn't received any mail since the summer, and given what they had said in the newspapers lately, Harry rather doubted Ron or Hermione had an abrupt change of heart.

Wrapped simply in brown paper, it was only the fact it hadn't exploded upon landing on his head that confirmed to Harry it wasn't a bomb. It wouldn't be the first time he had received life-threatening hate mail, and knowing the public's current opinion of him, Harry truly wouldn't have been surprised.

Carefully he began unwrapping it, his every move watched by the eagle that stood snootily on his windowsill. As the last of the packaging fell away, Harry felt his eyes widen and he couldn't help but be stunned.

_Why would Marcus Flint send him a gift?_

He and Flint had not exactly left on … good terms. In fact it would probably be a stretch to label it as leaving on terrible terms.

There had been an incredibly heated argument, ending with Harry kind of … running away. Quickly, while dodging punches.

Uncle Vernon had definitely not been happy when Harry phoned him from a pay phone in Muggle London and asked to be picked up in the dead of the night. No, he certainly hadn't been, and Harry still had the limp, the bruises and quite possibly a concussion to prove it. Unless there really was a fairy dancing with the eagle, which Harry really doubted, but then, five years ago he would have thought a wand was a stick of wood, so maybe it really was there.

Yet lying there, looking incredibly out of place next to the ancient worn furniture in the guest bedroom of Aunt Marge's home, were the ridiculously expensive robes he had tried on in Madam Malkins.

There was no letter.

There wasn't even a note or a return address. It gave a rather bizarre sense of déjà vu, reminding Harry of the similar circumstances with which he had received his Firebolt. He wondered if he was still friends with Hermione, she would give these robes to Professor Mcgonagall to check for spells as she had done with his Firebolt.

But who else could have sent them? Madam Malkin, Harry was positive, did not count him in her top ten favourite people after the … incident in her shop, and judging from the ragged clothing of her assistant, Harry doubted she had enough to pay for her meals let alone ludicrously expensive robes.

But why would _Flint_ send him robes?

From what Harry gathered on Christmas day, Flint wasn't the type of person who would randomly send anyone – particularly Harry Potter – a Christmas gift, especially how they had left things. Was he trying to make amends, or was there some other string attached to the robes? He was the only person who had seen him try them on that could afford to buy them, though frankly the insinuation his clothes weren't of sufficient quality for Flint was somewhat insulting.

As soon as he saw Flint he'd demand an explanation, Harry decided, wondering vaguely if he would have the element of surprise to punch the sixth year. It wasn't so much that the sixth year had hurt Harry with his insults, it was just there was something about Flint that _annoyed_ Harry.

A lot.

* * *

><p><strong>January 10<strong>**th****, Marge Dursley's home, 7:12am**

Harry sighed softly, his gaze flickering over to the clock. It was two hours until the Hogwarts train boarded, and Harry wasn't sure whether he was going to be on it.

Six more months of constant bullying, humiliation and fighting. Six more agonising months of the daily torture of seeing Ron, Hermione and Ginny, watching them smirk at him at the Gryffindor table when issues of _The Boy Who Lied_ column in the Daily Prophet, which they regularly gave interviews for.

Hogwarts was meant to be his sanctuary, his home – just as it had been for Voldemort, so many decades before him. Yet, was it really better than the Dursleys? Maybe it was once, but not anymore.

Harry frowned down at the two pairs of robes he held in each of his hands. In his left were the robes he usually wore; in his right the robes the eagle had delivered.

The robes of a Pureblood.

It was unmistakable now that Harry had studied them – he had often seen the likes of Malfoy strutting about the castle with similar robes, though they had green embroidery whilst Harry's had gold.

He had been tempted when he first received the robes to simply throw them away. It was pointless to walk around in finery - it definitely wouldn't change how the public felt about him; if anything it would only result in more abuse.

Yet as he thought about it, Harry began wondering why he was keeping up the façade of being the Gryffindor he used to be. When he had first entered the wizarding world, he had thought his robes were finery, though he supposed anything would have been after spending his life wearing Dudley's hand-me-downs.

But he wasn't that naïve little boy anymore. Everything had changed. The world was no longer black and white – being Slytherin doesn't make you evil; being Gryffindor doesn't make you virtuous.

One day Voldemort was going to strike. It might be as small as a series of murders to kill his chief threats, or it could be as large as an attack on the Ministry of Magic. The fact remained that one day the people who judged him now, that spread rumours about him and jinxed him in the hallways, were going to realise just how wrong they had been to label him as a liar.

Harry didn't know whether it would be in a week, a month, or in a year. He didn't know where Voldemort would strike first, and he didn't know why. What he did know was wherever Voldemort did decide to attack, the darkest part of his mind hoped the Order would be the target and though Harry would never admit it, he hoped they wouldn't survive.

In his hands lay two choices, and although it seemed he was simply picking an outfit, it was what they represented that mattered. Wearing his old robes made it seem as if nothing changed, and when Voldemort came back, he would return to his old life as though nothing had happened, even if everything had changed. But that was the thing – nothing was ever going to be the same now, and it was with a resolute hand he tore off Dudley's ragged sweatshirt, changing into his new robes.

As Harry glanced into the mirror, staring at the reflection of a true Slytherin, he could have sworn he felt an emotion from Voldemort through their connection.

Satisfaction.

* * *

><p><strong>January 10<strong>**th**** 8:50am, **_**Flint Manor**_

Marcus Flint was by no means a patient man. He hated everything to do with patience – stalling, waiting, halting … It was all the same to him, and all equally annoying. Whether it was a simple pause of uncertainty while talking, or waiting for the Night Bus, he found it unbearably frustrating.

He often debated whether it was some sort of karma for being evil in a past life that he had been sorted into Slytherin, where everyone took decades to respond to the simplest of questions and conversations always drifted off to a 'mysterious' silence.

It was definitely why he found all his friends so annoying.

But there was little to be done when all Purebloods danced around words, and held unbearably long _boring_ staring contests every time they met. For some it was comedy, for others it was tradition, but for Marcus Flint it was simply mind-blowingly tedious.

Unfortunately for him – and confirming his ridiculously back luck - his father loved the dance.

So there they were, for what had to be the billionth time since he got home from Hogwarts, having _another_ staring contest. His father's eyes were narrowed, calculating and judging. Marcus' were bored.

It had to be some kind of punishment to be cursed with a father like this. One so Slytherin, he couldn't even stop the dance for his own son. But being his father's supposed heir - though his father kept threatening to disown him - had made his father view him like he would any other Pureblood.

The Flint heir had to know how to dance, to pause, and to wait, after all, or they would be a laughing stalk. Considered _Gryffindors_ if this behaviour continued, his father had told him.

Marcus truly couldn't care less.

But unfortunately for Marcus, this was a silence that he could not get out of. A silence he couldn't get out of because Marcus had started it himself. And past the boredom, - which he was using not only as a mask for his father, but for himself - he could feel the desperation. He _needed_ this – _Braxton_ needed this, and Marcus would be damned before he would let his father do this.

It was such a big moment in his life, yet it seemed so normal. He had often come into his father's study and played heir, but back then it had been so trivial, about such unimportant forgettable matters. This was completely different – this was bigger.

Braxton's life depended on this.

Yet his father's chair remained the same dull black. His desk was still the same polished mahogany and the walls the same glittering green. Marcus was older now, and much taller, but even the room seemed the same size, and he doubted his father's dance had changed – if anything he had gotten better, but even more calculating and much slower. His posture was same as it was when he asked if he could go visit his favourite aunt when he was ten; indifferent from when he asked to go into the Muggle world so he could try an amazing invention called a 'rollercoaster' that he had read about. It was identical to the time he had asked his father to teach him how to fly.

All of them such inconsequential things, though his father had regarded him each time with serious hard blue eyes, and immaculate Pureblood posture. But this was so much bigger than ice-cream, or his Aunt, and much more important than Quidditch!

And his father had yet to even acknowledge that, to even change the slightest movement of his mouth, or move a single brow.

'No, Marcus.' His father said, his voice betraying a slight hint of emotion. But it was so faint, that Marcus had no idea how his father was feeling. That was the result of living with someone who kept his emotions tightly behind a mask for all his life, no matter whether it was his son he was with. To father everyone was an enemy, and there were no exceptions to that rule. 'It's unacceptable.'

'But it wasn't his fault! You must know that!'

Thesbius Flint looked up at his son, his eyes, for once, filled with emotion. It took several blinks to call the tears back, but he managed it, and Thesbius was almost certain he managed it without notice.

'You think I don't know how unfair this is? You think I wanted this for him? People would talk, Marcus. And _They_ would hear the rumors anyway. Is that what you want? It's better this way, even if it's harder.'

Marcus couldn't help the red hot anger that clouded his vision, nor the burst of magic that shattered his father's mahogany desk to smithereens.

It wasn't fair! It wasn't right!

But he could do nothing.

Marcus was over six foot tall, and had a body built for fighting. He could lift most of his classmates up with one hand, and his Dark magic was considered extraordinarily good, for someone of his age.

But he had never felt so helpless, or so utterly and unbearably not in control as he did then.

His father was right, of course he was. Marcus couldn't remember a time in his life when Thesbius had been wrong about anything. And as much as he wished Thesbius would grant him this, he knew he would not. It was true – They would come for Braxton, no matter how hard Marcus tried to keep it a secret. It was dangerous, even now, with only their family knowing, that someone would perform Legilimency on them and find out. The only reason Marcus had even came home for Christmas, something he had never done before in his six years at Hogwarts, was so he could complete the Occulmency lessons he had started in the summer with his father.

And that was exactly what he had done.

'You're going to be late.' Thesbius said tightly, an almost undetectable hint of sadness in his eyes. 'You have five minutes before the train leaves.'

* * *

><p><em><strong>Pretty please with Tom Felton on top, review! <strong>_

_**Even a word will do!**_

_**(I'm rather proud that rhymed :P My amazing poetry skills are evident :L )**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer**: I'm clearly not JK Rowling, and I take no credit for the world she has made, nor any characters originally created by her, only for the few I have created by myself.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Sorry it's been a while … I spilt Pepsi all over my laptop, and well … Apparently that's not good for computers :P I'll hopefully update in a few days, because I'm going on holiday on Monday for two weeks and I won't have access to a computer, but things have been a little hectic lately. <strong>_

_**Anyway, here's chapter 9, which is the last 'slow' chapter for a while because in the next one things pick up considerably. There is a bit in this which is a bit unrealistic, even in the wizarding world, but if I was a wizard, this is probably the first thing I'd do … (After marrying Draco, of course!)**_

* * *

><p>"<em>I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next.<br>Delicious Ambiguity." _

_* __**Gilda Radner ***_

* * *

><p>The hustle and bustle of Platform Nine and Three Quarters was nothing new to Harry Potter - he had been a wizard for five years now, and for each of those five years – with one notable exception - he had gotten the Hogwarts Express to the school. He was used to the crying, the laughing, and the hugging of families saying goodbye to their loved ones. He was used to the stares, and the whispers, and the gossip as people saw The Boy Who Lived.<p>

What he was not used to was the jeers.

He was certainly not used to the people who watched his every move with a steady glare, to the people with narrowed eyes that seemed to be silently plotting against him, or to those who were brave enough to yell death threats that were all too descriptive. He wasn't used to mothers pulling their children back from him, warning their families quietly that he was dangerous, or the hushed murmurs of the crowd wondering if he was to be the next Dark Lord.

But apart from the slightly hurt feeling in his stomach when Harry realised the Weasleys were purposely avoiding him, Harry didn't truly care. It didn't matter what they thought of him. If they were scared, then let them be afraid. He was someone to be afraid of. An enemy who had absolutely no one to care about him, and nothing to lose was definitely someone to be wary of, even petrified of. After all, that was what had made Lord Voldemort so formidable at the beginning, his isolation from everyone else.

Then Voldemort became obsessed with immortality, spending his time trying to create potions that made the drinker immortal and attempting to negotiate with the vampires for equal rights when he won the war; so long as Voldemort was allowed to run experiments on them, hoping to gain the secret to their immortality. He spent too much time worrying over his possible death, and not enough recruiting followers, learning complex battle strategies, and discovering the Light's weaknesses.

Though Harry loathed the man that murdered his parents, Harry knew given what he had heard of the Dark Lord's incredible intellect, if he had not been so obsessed with his mortality, Voldemort would have won the war.

But Harry had absolutely no such qualms about dying. After all, what did he have to live for? If he was honest with himself, Harry almost hoped there truly was nothing after death; at least then he would finally be relieved of his responsibilities. He wouldn't have to be the Golden Boy, the Boy Who Lived or the Chosen One; he would simply be gone and quite literally past the point of caring about saving the people who chose to destroy everything that had made his life worth living.

His mother had surrendered her life to Voldemort so Harry could live to defeat the Dark Lord, and in honour of her sacrifice, that was exactly what he was planned to do. But apart from that sole goal, there was nothing Harry had to live for.

There was no love in his world; only hate.

There was no kindness in his life; only pain.

There was no goodness in those around him; only evil.

And perhaps, the painful solitude that he was attempting to learn to live with was a good thing because he now had absolutely nothing to lose. Harry had never felt so purposeful, so intent on killing Voldemort and ending the war, than he did now.

And it was all because of Marcus Flint.

Not because Flint had found a way into the deepest part of his soul and shown him his purpose in life, nor had he discovered some kind of clichéd undying love for the Slytherin Quidditch captain.

It was, in fact, quite the opposite.

Flint, at some point during their all too personal argument, had made Harry finally admit to himself what he was to the Gryffindors, to the entire wizarding world. A machine, a tool to use whenever they pleased and a figure to back political campaigns behind, but ultimately Harry would never live up to their ridiculous image of the hero that was Boy Who Lived that they grew up hearing about.

A small part of Harry resented the fact that wizarding parents had told their children about his parent's death as a bed time story, that they had grown up with the knowledge of the pure love with which Lily sacrificed her life for his, when Harry had spent eleven years of his life believing his parents had been drunks, hating the fact that had they been more careful when they were driving they would have still been alive, and ultimately loathing that they had listed Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon as his legal guardians if anything was to happen to them.

He knew now that none of the things his relatives had told him about his parents were true, but by the time Harry learned the truth, he had spent eleven years resenting them and the damage had been done; his parents had forever been tainted by his relatives' cruel sick lies.

They all expected him somehow kill the monster that had left frequently left mangled corpses of what once were phenomenal wizards in the Ministry of Magic as a message to those that dared to defy him. The only time the public ever needed him was when Voldemort was attempting to resurrect himself and they needed him to swoop in and somehow save the day, despite the fact he was a mere child that had a measly understanding of magic, yet he was expected to win against a magical mastermind that had spent his whole life studying it.

Dumbledore had known each time Voldemort tried to resurrect himself, yet despite being the only wizard Tom Riddle had ever feared, the old man preferred to sit back and watch as Harry nearly killed himself each year attempting to stop Voldemort from succeeding and another wizarding war occurring.

As he thought about Dumbledore's lack of action, Harry couldn't help but wonder whether Dumbledore had actually wanted another war to happen, but he couldn't understand why on earth a man who preached non-violence as the only means for a peaceful world would not only want a second war - that would destroy Harry's generation, cost the Ministry millions of galleons to fund it and require decades for wizarding Britain to recover from - but would gladly sit back and allow it to happen.

Biting his lip, Harry shook his head, wondering whether Moody's paranoia had infected him. It was ridiculous to even contemplate the leader of the Light being guilty of such treason.

Harry watched, blinking back tears, as the Weasleys boarded the train, each one of them wearing one of Mrs Weasley's lumpy hand-knitted jumpers. Though Harry had never received one that year, he had four of them, one from each Christmas at Hogwarts, all carefully folded in his trunk; a constant reminder of the life he was leaving behind.

But the life he was choosing, though one of solitude, was one he knew would be preferable. If he was successful in killing Voldemort, the wizarding world would finally leave him alone and Harry would simply blur into the background of history, forgotten but for his name in some dusty textbook. He would finally be at peace.

Harry had received no physical gift that Christmas, but Marcus Flint had unknowingly given him purpose and the Light had opened his eyes to his worth. He had a plan now, whereas before he had been drifting; to kill Voldemort and then, to become a necromancer. Though it was his priority when he got to Hogwarts to begin researching offensive magic, he was eager to learn more about necromancy, though he was aware given its status as an almost mythical magical practice, there was little written information regarding it.

As he approached the train, ignoring the muttering of the people he passed, Harry couldn't help but feel a little nervous about the Slytherins that were aboard it. Doubtless, Voldemort would have punished them all for not instantly summoning him when Harry arrived in Butcher's Tavern, and Harry's pulse quickened with his fear that they were going to made his life a living hell.

Particularly a Slytherin he hadn't left on the best terms with, and Harry felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck as he wondered whether the massive muscled sixth year would resort to violence. Reluctantly, Harry realised he wouldn't be able to go anywhere after curfew in case the Slytherin was lurking behind a tapestry, ready to attack, until he found out how Flint was going to retaliate.

Harry grimaced down at his trunk, wondering how he was going to lift it onto the train single-handedly. Despite having virtually been Petunia's slave for the past few weeks, almost everything he owned was in his trunk, making it impossible to lift without assistance. As he glanced around for help from hostile strangers, he realised just how irritating it was to the Boy Who Lived.

As slowly, and carefully as he could, Harry slid his trunk from the luggage trolley, and dropped in on the ground with a sharp crack. He could feel the disapproving glares without even looking up, but Harry shrugged, dragging the trunk and its considerable weight towards the train, envying Zabini who had clearly thought to get a trunk with wheels. That was definitely something Harry would have to look into if the whole independent thing kept up.

An elbow to his head caused Harry to swear loudly, jolting upright from his bent position by his trunk to glare at his attacker. Pale blonde hair whipped around, as a gloved hand delicately flew to his bruised elbow, 'Watch where you're going-' Lucius Malfoy started, before grey eyes widened as they recognised Harry.

Knowing the Pureblood was likely to _Avada Kedavra_ him on the spot because of the lies Harry had spun in Butcher's Tavern, which had undoubtedly caused Voldemort to punish Lucius, Harry barely had time to curse under his breath that his luck had finally ran out when the wizard extended his hand, 'Potter, I apologise. I hope you're well?'

_What the fuck? Why am I not on the floor, dying?_ Harry wondered, while trying not to look alarmed that Lucius Malfoy was being, dare he said it, _nice_.

Emerald eyes widened at the offered hand, wondering whether Lucius had some sort of poison on his glove that would discreetly kill Harry without revealing Lucius as the guilty party.

Seeing no powered residue, Harry reluctantly shook his hand with the blonde's while attempting to maintain a relaxed expression, despite his inner turmoil, before quickly removing it as Draco turned to see what was the hold up.

'Father?' Upon seeing Harry, Draco's silver eyes met his father's, widening before he swiftly regained his usual cold mask. With a stern look from Lucius, Draco quickly inclined his head, directing a small smile at Harry – which thoroughly freaked the Gryffindor out – before speaking, 'Potter, I wished to formally ask your forgiveness for the way I have acted towards you the last five years. It was childish and unbecoming; absolutely no way for the heir of the Malfoy estate to behave.'

Wondering what plan the Malfoys had hatched, Harry swiftly opened his mouth to tell them just where they could shove it, when Lucius – apparently sensing Harry's mounting anger – placed his gloved hand on Harry's shoulder. Alarmed with the touching, Harry turned to look at it, pondering whether the blonde had forgotten he was a Half-Blood. 'An allegiance with the Malfoy family could do great things for you, Potter.' Thin lips stretched into a cold smile as he gave Harry's shoulder a final pat, 'Think about it.'

And with that, the Malfoys departed, leaving Harry slack-jawed in their wake and wondering what exactly just happened. It seemed like too much effort for the Malfoys, though excellent schemers, to launch such a complex plan as revenge for the trouble he had undoubtedly caused for them by claiming to be a Death Eater.

With this thought, came the unlikely notion that somehow Voldemort hadn't found out about his escapade, and they were simply attempting to bribe who they believed was Voldemort's heir.

'Harry!' The Boy Who Lived was abruptly torn from his trail of thought at the call, knowing he would recognise that misty voice from anywhere. Smiling as turned around, his eyes crinkled as Luna Lovegood ran towards him, her trunk bouncing wildly behind her, in a manner only she could get away with. Dressed in an ankle-length shapeless skirt made for a woman at least three times her size, it had beads and crystals sewn onto the white fabric in a seemingly random pattern, with several runes Harry didn't recognise running along the waistline. The simple black T-shirt Luna had tucked into her skirt was a healthy relief, almost making up for the half-rotten cauliflower earrings she had put in her ears.

Harry and Luna were far from best friends, and they definitely weren't nearly as close as he had been with Ron or with Hermione, but they did have one very significant thing in common – they both had no one.

With the exception of her father, who was often away searching for proof the newest creature of his imagination was real; Luna had been forced to grow up virtually alone, with the exception of her old, eccentric house-elf Loofy. Having heard stories of Loofy's rather erratic, brutally honest and blunt nature, Harry understood how being mostly raised by the House-elf meant Luna had never learnt typical social etiquette, which unfortunately meant she was frequently terrorized by Hogwart's older students.

They had a friendship which was mutually beneficial – they could talk to someone who wasn't insulting them, or trying to mock them - and it was a plus that they actually enjoyed each other's company. Harry loved Luna's random quirks, and the world she lived in. Luna loved … well, hopefully something about him.

'Luna!' Harry beamed, embracing her in a tight hug, while simultaneously trying to keep his trunk steady.

'Did you have a good Yule?' Luna enquired, her voice soft and misty. Harry had often compared it to Trelawney's, but unlike his idiotic divination teacher, beneath Luna's veil of doziness, a brilliant mind was at work.

… If a slightly unconventional one.

'With my relatives?' Luna grimaced, though Harry knew she did not fully understand.

He had made it a rule not to reveal how terrible his relatives were to anyone after the interviews during which Ron and Hermione claimed he lied about his relatives abusing him for attention. It was after that article came out, after Harry realised that Hermione and Ron truly did not care if he ended up dead in a ditch – so long as he killed Voldemort first – that he became 'friends', for lack of a better word, with Luna. Harry knew though, that to Luna, despite her brilliant mind, Harry was probably exerting a classic case of teenage rebellion.

'Ah, did the Nargles get to them? They're awful at this time of year because it's breeding season.'

Or … maybe she had a different theory …

Harry grinned, nodding in agreement. Luna's sky blue eyes turned to his trunk, immediately understanding his situation. 'I'll help.' She beamed joyfully, as if carrying Harry's trunk onto the Hogwart's Express was an enjoyable activity to do.

With Luna grabbing one end of the trunk, and Harry the other, they spent ten agonizing minutes giving hasty apologies to the glowering people they hit with the trunk and panting heavily from the hard work, before they finally found an empty cabin. Of course, all the cabins where full except for the last cabin on the train and the one furthest away, thus requiring the most effort.

Of course, for Harry Potter, life was like that.

Harry gladly sat down on the worn leather seat of the cabin, his forehead shining with sweat and his breath coming in gasps. Luna smirked opposite him, looking relatively unbothered by their exertion, her vivid blue eyes lighting up in concern as she pulled a charm bracelet from the pocket of her robes. 'I think you need this more than I do. You're covered in Jixy spiders.'

Staring down at the proffered bracelet, which appeared to have a lock of Luna's hair intertwined with the metal chain, Harry shook his head. 'You keep it … er, Jixy spiders?'

'Yes,' Luna answered distractedly, pulling a Quibbler out of her bag, 'They're invisible spiders that are attracted to death, you see.'

Harry's lips twitched in amusement, used to Luna's odd quirks, and turned to look out the window, where students were hastily saying goodbyes to their parents, before rushing onto the Hogwarts Express with barely a minute before it departed from Platform Nine and Three Quarters; whether they were on it or not.

Harry smiled fondly, remembering the … alternative transport he had used in his second year when he and Ron had been unable to board the train.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he turned to Luna, 'So, was your Yule as bad as mine?'

* * *

><p>'So, Loofy really gathered all the House Elves she knew to play a game of rounders just to make you feel better?' Harry raised his eyebrows, his tone disbelieving.<p>

Luna had not had a brilliant Christmas by a normal wizard's view. Her father, while besotted with her, had been away in Scotland researching Legless Nino-Flies, and hadn't been able to return for any of her Christmas holidays, leaving Luna alone for Christmas.

However, Loofy, Luna's insane elderly House Elf, had secretly Apparated to all her friends, and invited them to Luna's house on Christmas day to play Luna's favourite game.

It had certainly been something, Luna had said, to wake up and find multiple House Elves tearing the sheets from her bed, and frantically cleaning any dust in her room, while carrying baseball bats, leather gloves and balls; all of which were human sized, making each of them look ridiculously cute.

It had been even funnier hearing them berating Loofy, who kept their house perfectly immaculate, telling her that she had not been doing a very good job and she should hang her ears in shame.

And it had been hilarious that Loofy had merely responded to whack the offending House Elves on the head with a baseball with a surprising ease given that the bat was several times too big for her.

They had proceeded to play the longest game of rounders Luna had ever had, stretching from dawn to dusk. Luna said it had been the funniest hours of her life watching House Elves try to cheat, and use magic, while Loofy sternly told them off. Certainly when Ruppy, one of the most mischievous House Elves Luna had ever had the pleasure of meeting, enchanted the baseball so every time the batter hit it, it rolled back and hit them it the face, had been one of the best moments of her life.

Then, exhausted but happy, they went into the kitchen to bake the biggest feast Luna had ever seen – bigger, she said, than any at Hogwarts. It was partly because of the sheer number of House Elves, but also because the House Elves had all individually prepared the Christmas dinner the way it was served at their manner, and berated Luna into trying it all.

The Malfoy House Elf, a rather snobbish fellow, Luna had to say, bullied her into choosing which was best. But for Luna, the brilliant foods were all equally amazing, delicious and splendid. And after trying what must have been hundreds of different types of turkey, Luna confessed that she had worried her stomach would explode from the amount of food she ate.

So with a vow to do the same the following Christmas, and hundreds of bloated House Elves and Luna, the House Elves bowed, thanked Loofy for the invitation, and Disapparated back to their respective manners. Having returned periodically to their homes throughout the day to attend to their Master's needs, no one had even noticed they were gone.

Luna and Loofy shared a hot chocolate, and gave each other their Christmas gifts. For Loofy, a duster she had been eying for months that cleaned surfaces ten times as fast, and for Luna a thick book on magical creatures.

No, it was not a conventional Christmas by any normal standards, but from Harry's point of view, it sounded absolutely perfect.

'You have to come to my house next Christmas, Harry! Everyone would love you!' Luna smiled, a rare true smile that made her eyes sparkle with sincerity.

Harry, although a little taken back by the invitation, smiled back.

'So, I know you said it wasn't very good …' Luna frowned, 'but did anything exciting happen?'

Harry bit into his lip, knowing that last year if it had have been Hermione or Ron who had asked that question, he wouldn't have even hesitated in telling them.

But Luna … the past year had changed him, though whether for better or worse, Harry didn't know. He no longer gave information freely, just as he was no longer the same ignorant Gryffindor; he had learned from his mistakes, and he was stronger because of it.

'No.' Harry smiled smoothly, slipping it into his mask easily. 'Just the same old family Christmas.'

Luna nodded, taking it as the end of the conversation as she turned her Quibbler upside down and began reading, small bubbles of laughter occasionally coming from her as she read.

Harry watched as the train pulled out of the station, leaving the Muggle world long behind him. He had sat on this train many times before now, and not once had he wanted to get off. Today, Harry couldn't help but want to leave.

To leave and never come back.

But he had never been a coward, and Harry Potter swore he wasn't going to become one. Danger lay ahead of him, and he would face it with the bravery of a Gryffindor and the cunning of a Slytherin, but he refused to run from it. Instead, he would face his fate with the courage he had inherited from his parents.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Pretty please review <strong>_

_**Even if it's a criticism, I'd love to hear any tips you have to I can improve this fic. **_


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer**: I'm clearly not JK Rowling, and I take no credit for the world she has made, nor any characters originally created by her, only for the few I have created by myself.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Sorry about the long wait. Betty (my laptop) died obviously, and when I finally got a new one, the joys of exams and life prevented me from uploading. I'm off for mid-term right now, so please enjoy this long awaited update, and I should hopefully be able to update again in the next few days.<strong>_

_**Good news is, things beginning to pick up in this chapter. ;) ;)**_

* * *

><p>"<em>If you don't know where you're going, any road'll take you there"<br>__*** George Harrison, **__**Cloud Nine ***_

* * *

><p>January faded into February in a blur of activity. With the realisation Voldemort was an incredibly intelligent wizard, Harry threw himself into his studies. He needed to. The past few years he had barely escaped with his life by relying on Hermione's intelligence and his own sheer luck. He didn't have Hermione anymore and he had a strong feeling his luck had long run out. Voldemort's power was greater than any wizard alive, except perhaps Dumbledore and seeing as the Headmaster had done little other than patronise his claims, Harry knew once again it was up to him to save the wizarding world. He was nowhere near the power level of Voldemort and he would probably never be able to compare to Voldemort's genius nor his decades of experience. But he could try.<p>

He spent hours pouring over dusty books in the library until he knew the entire fifth year syllabus like the back of his hand. Once he had succeeded, he began to study sixth year material. But that alone wasn't enough. When the library closed, he used the invisibility cloak to sneak into the Room of Requirement after curfew. There he summoned dummies and practiced defensive spells long into the night.

The parcels helped. Once a week - from the same eagle Flint had used to deliver his robes - Harry received a book wrapped brown paper. There was never a note. _How to Blend In With the Enemy_ had been the first heavy tome, which Harry assumed had been some kind of inside joke by Flint. It was followed by _Defensive Jinxes_, _Battle Strategy_, and most recently _Defensive Attacks_. He hadn't spoken to Flint since their last disastrous encounter in Madam Malkins' Robes For All Occasions, but he assumed from the weekly parcels he received from Flint that the Slytherin was determined to uphold his end of the deal even if he was too aggravated to speak to Harry.

He appreciated the Slytherin's help nonetheless, even if it was done from afar. Although each of the books were unbelievably long, dusty and written in an archaic branch of English, Harry soon began to notice vast improvements in his technique. Duelling in Defence Against the Dark Arts became ridiculously easy as he had such a vast repertoire of spells to choose from, his Transfigurations gained a finesse he had lacked previously and Harry was even shocked to have understood Binn's lecture on Gregor the Nasty's invasion of Norway having read about it in Battle Strategy. A few weeks of hard work led him to feel much more confident in his ability as a wizard.

However despite the immense progress he had made, Harry was constantly aware he still had an extraordinarily long way to go before he would even be near the standard of the Dark Lord, let alone the power level required to defeat him.

Quickly Harry realised it was taking far too much time to sneak from the Room of Requirement into the Gryffindor common room long after curfew when he could have been perfecting a spell. Hence he took to sleeping in the Room of Requirement so he could work long into the night and wake up early in order to continue practicing. It wasn't long until he became like a ghost – a shadow of the Boy who Lived that came to classes and meals, but was never to be found in the Gryffindor common room or in his dormitory. Yet if his housemates noticed, no concerns were voiced over his absence and Harry continued with his intense routine. Bruised black shadows swiftly formed under his eyes from a lack of sleep, his ivory skin grew a ghostly pallor and his temper was constantly flaring up at anyone who dared to look at him. Worst of all, however, was his magical core. The amount of spells he was casting daily had taken its toll on it, but as Harry showed no signs of relenting it began to drain energy from other parts of his body. He was constantly distracted, dizzy and had a relentless pounding in his head, but still Harry refused to stop. This wall; it was simply another weakness that he needed to get past if he wanted to compare to Voldemort.

It was the second week of February before something happened to shock him out of his relentless routine. He had arrived for breakfast a few minutes before class with an ache in his neck from sleeping with his head in a book and a gnawing hunger to perfect a curse he had been practicing late night and again that morning. _Sensu vellera_ muffled the victim's senses to the extent they could not see, hear, taste or smell anything, which according to Flint's book heightened the feeling of every touch. Although the pronunciation and wand movements were simple, the spell required mass amounts of energy and concentration to perform once, not to mention the countless times he had cast it. He had gone to bed late that night incredibly frustrated he hadn't been able to perfect it, and his lack of precision practicing it that morning had only solidified his belief of how incapable he was.

As he sat down slightly away from the first years at the end of the Gryffindor table, a pounding pain erupted in his scar. Gasping, he grasped his head in his hands and fought to remain conscious as darkness swirled in front of him. Slowly he steadied himself, and forced the pain deep into his core.

Blinking slightly, he glanced around to see a familiar ginger rolling his eyes at him. The hatred in Ron's eyes shouldn't hurt him as much as it did. But he was weak. Seeing no need to tolerate it for a moment longer, he grabbed the first piece of toast he saw and made to leave when a familiar hawk screeched down at him. A brown package was swiftly deposited in his hand and a beak tore his toast from his hand before swiftly taking off.

Flabbergasted and enormously irritated at his loss of food, Harry stormed from the hall to his first class. As no one had yet arrived, he tore open the brown paper and it was with horror he glanced at the book that Flint had sent him.

* * *

><p><strong>February 13<strong>**th****, 8:45am, Slytherin Common Room, Hogwarts.**

Flint's eyes darted around his Common Room. It was empty, apart from a few stragglers that had slept in. As the last of them left, he broke the wax seal on the letter he had received that morning, praying it would hold good news he needed.

The letter was heavily coded and it took him a few minutes to understand the vague oblique language of his informant. When he did however, it was only years of training under a father who did not hesitate to use _crucio_ on his heir that prevented Flint from emitting a screech of rage.

However any control he had on his magic was immediately lost, and it flew around the room desperately seeking a release. From the corner of his eye he noticed a cat making its way towards the girl's dormitory, and with great satisfaction he bellowed, 'Adolebit!' His eyes glazed with pleasure as a small rush of euphoria spread through his body at the Grey spell - the closest thing he could cast to Dark Arts within Hogwart's wards without detection. A cool laugh fell from his lips as the cat emitted a dying screech before it went up in flames, leaving only a pile of ashes behind. He could the humming power in his veins and his magic begging him to cast another, but with several calming breaths the urge was gone and replaced with the familiar cold fury at his father for putting him in this horrifying situation.

A slow sarcastic clap sounded behind him, and with trepidation Flint turned to see Adrian Pucey smirking behind him. 'What a beautiful display, Flint. I guess a lack of control must run in your family.'

The subtle insult wasn't lost on Flint as he scowled at the Slytherin in front of him.

'Too bad he didn't take you instead though.' Pucey sneered as he stroked his wand, 'I'm sure Thesbius would have preferred it.'

'Funny you should say that. I heard your father is considering making Adrianna the first ever female heir the Pucey line. Must hurt; a _female_ being chosen over you.' Flint smirked as a shocked expression was hidden too slowly under Pucey's mask.

'That's merely a rumour.' Pucey smiled smugly at Flint. 'Too bad the stories circulating about your family are true. I do wonder,' he smiled innocently at Flint, 'how long it will take the Daily Prophet to learn of your brother's truly _tragic_ fate. I only hope it won't disgrace your family's name too much.'

The anger running through Flint's veins was so intense; he didn't even know how to channel it. A curse to his chest, a hex through Pucey's constantly infuriating smirk … The possibilities were endless.

All he knew was that he was suddenly closing the distance between him and Pucey, his mind acting of its own accord as he lunged a fist towards the Slytherin's face, intent on getting rid of Pucey's infuriating smirk. His hand plunged into something hard and he swore heavily as he glared at the non-verbal shield his hand had made contact with. Caressing his aching crumpled hand, his anger intensified as Pucey's smirk remained on the arrogant Pureblood's face.

'I would never have thought Thesbius' son capable of such a loss of control, but then again I guess animalistic urges do run in your family.'

Pucey's chilling laughter echoed down the corner as he left Flint to heal his shattered hand. Gazing furiously down at the letter on the table, with one more 'Adolebit!' it vanished into ashes.

He only wished he could erase it from his memory.

* * *

><p><strong>February 13<strong>**th****, 8:50am, Great Hall, Hogwarts.**

Emotions warred within his mind as he stared at the small article, hidden at the back of the newspaper. It was a small column, barely five hundred words but it was the title that had demanded Severus' attention: '_Two Hundred Muggles Killed as Newly Built Bridge Collapses'_. As he scanned through the rest of the article, fear gripped his heart in a way he hadn't felt for a decade. He had lived as a Muggle for eleven horrifying years as a child, and he knew better than any Pureblood that Muggles weren't the idiotic species that shared some DNA with wizards they were painted to be. Blinded fools perhaps, but capable of building a bridge without it collapsing.

He swallowed tightly as against his will, his mind conjured other examples of the odd articles that had become customary in the back of the _Daily Prophet_. The day before a train carrying hundreds of Muggles had inexplicably derailed, completely baffling the English. Last week a commercial flight had vanished mid-journey and hadn't been heard from since.

There was too much carnage, too many fluke accidents for any of it to be natural.

It was all too familiar. Although he had barely been a teenager, Severus still remembered how the last war had begun. Muggles had been dying in bizarre natural disasters that had puzzled both Muggles and wizards alike, hundreds had simply mysteriously disappeared never to be heard from again and some had acquired strange grotesque injuries that could only have come from the darkest of magical creatures.

Before long, the Dark Lord emerged and claimed credit for the attacks. He gained instant respect from most Dark Pureblooded wizards across England, having stunned them with the enormous power, stealth and intelligence he must wield to accomplish such impossible feats and remain undetected. Aware that not only did Voldemort wield an astonishing amount of power, but also had gathered a mass of followers, Grey and even Light wizards flocked to his side out of fear. Having cast terror into the hearts of Light wizards, and demanded respect and admiration from his followers in their thousands, it wasn't long before much of Britain's adults had taken the Dark Mark and vowed to serve the Dark Lord.

The hairs rose along the back of Severus' neck as he contemplated his chilling memories, the sickening parallels between the past and present causing him to question whether the whispers he had disregarded as fantasy were indeed true. His old _friends_ had covertly informed him that the Dark Lord had been resurrected, spinning a tale identical to the one Potter had sprouted at the end of the Triwizard Tournament the previous summer. With this in mind, he had dismissed the rumours as false as it was more likely that Potter's desperate need for attention had given hope to despairing followers that their much missed Lord had returned to them. After all, being the Dark Lord's most trusted spy meant he would have been summoned instantly to his Lord's side upon his resurrection, yet his Mark had remained the same silvery grey as it had been for the last decade.

However even as he reminded himself of this, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of déjà vu as his gaze landed on the article once more. The unusual incidents occurred to frequently to simply be dismissed as accidents and they bore an undeniable resemblance to Voldemort's early years. Although he comforted himself with the knowledge it could simply be another Wizard supremist, he doubted any wizard had the intellect necessary to do so.

Although reluctant to deal with the man's oddities at such an early hour, Severus knew he needed to talk to Dumbledore urgently about his suspicions. He stood from the breakfast table and swept out of the Great Hall, his dark eyes promising pain to any brat that obstructed his path.

With a brisk knock he entered the wizened wizard's study, too impatient to wait for permission to enter. Pale blue eyes blinked at him, curiosity brimming beneath half-moon spectacles as he gestured towards the elaborately decorated floral armchair in front of his desk. Sitting down, Severus scowled irritably at the offered lemon drop, beverage or refreshment whilst Dumbledore busied himself adding honey to his own tea.

With a final stir and a pleased smile, Dumbledore looked up to regard Severus over the rims of his glasses. 'What do I owe this unexpected pleasure?'

'I wondered, Albus, if you had been reading the Daily Prophet with particular attention recently?'

'As always, I strive to learn what truly delightful secrets Miss Skeeter has uncovered about me this week.' Albus beamed, 'It would indeed seem I am having a secret relationship with a beautiful Pureblooded French witch. Our age difference has supposedly caused quite a scandal, but our love is pure.' He chuckled deeply as he sipped his tea.

Severus shifted impatiently in his seat, 'Albus.' His tone was impatient as he waited for the Headmaster to understand this was not to be an entertaining social call. 'I was actually referring to the odd article in the _Daily Prophet_ this morning.' With that, he placed the paper in front of Albus, pointing to the small column in question.

Dumbledore's smile dimmed at the shift in mood, shaking his head tragically. 'Dreadful accident, wasn't it?'

Dark eyes narrowed in response. 'Surely you've noticed the other 'dreadful' accidents, Albus? You cannot disagree they certainly seem reminiscent of how Voldemort began his campaign?' His heart stirred with fear as he awaited Dumbledore's answer, praying he would offer an explanation that did not involve the resurrection of his former master.

Swallowing, fear gripped his mind as Dumbledore studied him intently over the rim of his glasses. 'Of course I have noticed them, Severus.' A great sigh heaved from his chest as he seemed to force himself to continue speaking, 'This is exactly what I feared when Harry began to claim that the Dark Lord had been resurrected.'

'So you agree with Potter? You believe the Dark Lord has returned?' At his words, a wave of panic rose in Severus' mind as he thought of the repercussions this meant for him. He hadn't been summoned. That could only mean one thing: the Dark Lord evidently did not believe he was faithful to his cause, which meant he was essentially a dead man walking.

His magic immediately going into offense at the thought, it flared around him in a rage.

Dumbledore sighed as he watched Severus, a sad smile forming on his face as he scanned the article. 'I did not say that. The Tom Riddle I knew would not resurrect himself only to return to where he started two decades ago. He wouldn't have the patience. If Tom had been successful in avoiding death we would be aware of it by now.'

'I have spoken with the Inner Circle!' Severus snapped angrily. 'They have told me they were at the Dark Lord's resurrection. In fact their account is the exact replica of Potter's!'

'Alas, this was my fear.' As Albus shook his head wearily, Severus bit his tongue to prevent him cursing the Headmaster as he idly sat there, twirling his beard as if they weren't discussing the possible resurrection of a man that would cause a second wizarding war. 'It is my belief – which forgive me my arrogance, is generally correct – that Harry's claims of a resurrected Dark Lord simply intensified the yearning within the Death Eater's for the return of Tom. I imagine that one of his Inner Circle has grown weary of waiting for Tom's return, and in his absence has begun to replicate how Tom began his … campaign.'

Stunned, Severus gazed at the Headmaster's weary expression, wishing he could believe the explanation for the sudden inexplicable slaughter of Muggles was that simple. 'You must be wrong, Albus. I have spoken to those within the Inner Circle – none of whom could be easily deceived and they have told me they are regularly summoned by the Dark Lord.'

'Severus, I have no doubt the Death Eater impersonating Tom is an incredibly skilled Legilimatist to the extent not only could he fool others that he truly is Tom, but could even plant memories in their mind. In fact, surely you wondered why you hadn't been summoned if the Dark Lord was back? Severus, you are well known for your skill with the Mid Arts amongst your old _friends_ and clearly, my boy, this impersonator feared your proficiency would trump theirs.'

'That's all very nice, Albus. However I think you have forgotten Purebloods are trained in Occlumency from childhood and I find it difficult to accept someone would be able to fool them so completely.'

'Indeed Severus, that is true. Yet the Death Eaters, particularly the Inner Circle are well used to lowering their mental defences in order to show they are willing to show the Dark Lord their mind. In this state of vulnerability, it would be incredibly easy for this Death Eater to implant false memories.'

Although in the back of his mind Severus felt like they were missing something, in front of him offering an explanation that seemed to explain everything was Albus Dumbledore, a man who well versed in the actions of Voldemort. With that knowledge, he pushed his doubts to the back of his mind for future reflection before voicing his final concern, 'Even if it is not the Dark Lord, there is still someone slaughtering hundreds of Muggles with followers well-versed in the Dark Arts.'

Albus sighed wearily, smiling sadly. 'Isn't there always someone on the outskirts attempting to restart a war more powerful men have failed at? Trust me, Severus, this impersonator will give up very soon once he realises he is attempting to win a war even Tom Riddle lost.'

Severus nodded his thanks, and after a few more minutes of polite conversation he left the Headmaster's office, desperately trying to ignore the doubts that plagued his mind. Albus Dumbledore had never been wrong before, but there was always a first time for everything and this was a situation that would affect the lives of every wizard in Britain. As he retreated to his office with a bottle of Odgen's finest, he prayed Dumbledore was correct.

* * *

><p><strong>13<strong>**th**** February, 6:40pm, Broom Cupboard, Hogwarts.**

Harry didn't know which was worse: being violently shoved into a broom cupboard or not knowing _who_ violently shoved him into a broom cupboard.

Ever since he had opened that bloody parcel, he had been lost in a mixture of shock and terror. Holding the old dusty tome '_Introduction to Necromancy' _in such a public place nearly caused his heart to stop beating.

From what Hermione had told him of her research several years ago, he had gathered necromancers were not a welcome part of wizarding society in either Light or Dark circles. The Light considered them to be abominations, evil creatures that played around with souls they had no rights to mess with. The Dark thought they were _too_ Dark, and although it was considered a privilege to have a Necromancer in the family, it was considered unwise to associate with them given the unimaginable abilities even the weakest of Necromancers wielded.

In the weeks following his encounter with Blárvéurr and Dorcha Grian, he had grown to think about it less and less. He had noticed no changes about himself and he had simply dismissed the event as another one of the odd incidents that had happened to him.

However, the book in his hands had him remembering an experience he would really rather forget. The Light already thought he was dark because he was a Parseltongue, and he refused to give the Light any more ammunition with which to attack him with by becoming a Necromancer.

Carefully ensuring no one was around, he had hurriedly rewrapped the package and stowed it into the bottom of his book bag, casting a Notice-Me-Not charm on it for good measure.

With that dealt with, he began to wonder just how exactly such a book had been sent to him. There was no way Flint could possibly have known he was - _maybe_ – a Necromancer. Although he wasn't exactly sure what skills a Necromancer coming into his powers was supposed to demonstrate, Harry didn't think he had shown any of them.

That raised the question of how the hell Flint could possibly know.

It was a question that had plagued his mind the whole day. He paid no attention to class, instead going through every second of interaction he had had with Flint in his mind. He had examined the words he had said, his body language … nothing he had done could possibly have hinted at what he _might_ be.

Yet Flint knew.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry wandered towards the Room of Requirement through one of the short-cuts he had discovered. It wasn't until it was too late Harry realised the corridor wasn't as deserted as he thought it had been. A hand immediately covered his mouth to prevent him from screaming, and an arm was thrown across his torso, clamping his arms to his sides and winding him.

Struggling to get free with no avail, and unable to reach his wand with his arms clamped to his sides, Harry bit his attacker's hand as he felt himself being dragged backwards into a boom cupboard and was smug he had succeeded in harming them– if a little creeped out – as he tasted the copper blood of his attacker.

A muffled sounded in the darkness and a hard body pressed against his back. He felt warm breath on his cheek as his attacker bent towards him. 'Fuck, Potter! You nearly bit my finger off.' Harry felt his body stiffen at the familiar masculine voice. It could only be one person. 'Look, if I release you, will you scream?'

Seeing an opportunity for freedom, Harry shook his head, Or attempted to – Flint's ahnd on his mouth prevented any movement.

Abruptly, the hand was removed from his mouth and the arm across his torso was removed. Having relied on the Slytherin for support, Harry fell to the floor. He was up in moments and in seconds he turned to where he assumed Flint was and wand forgotten, began throwing punches. As he the satisfying smack of flesh meeting flesh, and the grunts of pain from Flint, Harry was certain his fists had found their targets.

He could the Pureblood muttering _lumos_ and suddenly the dirty cupboard was filled with light. Before him in all his irritating glory stood Flint, looking much more dangerous in his Slytherin robes and glowering face than he had at Butcher's Tavern. A large hand gripped his fist mid-punch, and sneering blues met emerald, 'Fuck Potter! If you don't stop, I will hurt you and you can bet I can kick your teenaged Gryffindor ass in a fight.'

Admitting defeat, Harry pulled his fist back as dignifiedly as he could given the circumstances. He smirked as he saw several blossoming bruises, before schooling his expression to one of innocence as Flint glared furiously.

Irritated and nursing bruises of his own, Harry waited impatiently for Flint to do something. As the silence stretched on, Harry grew irritated. 'Well? Is there a reason you threw me into a broom cupboard?'

'Yes.' Flint muttered angrily, frowning as he focused on Harry. 'I wanted to talk to you about something.'

Harry narrowed his eyes, 'Why not just ask me to talk like a normal person?'

'That's the thing,' Flint smirked, 'I'm far from a normal person.'

His irritation returned to him tenfold, before his eyes widened as he wondering what exactly Flint was implying. Was he … he couldn't be, could he? But then why else would Marcus Flint of all people have a book on necromancy if he himself wasn't a necromancer himself?

His voice dropped to a whisper as he studied Flint intently. 'Is this about the book you sent me?'

Flint's glare morphed to a confused expression, 'What book? I never sent you anything.'

Harry bit his lip uncertainly, 'Yes you did. The robes and the books.'

The Slytherin looked at Harry like he was crazy, 'I have never in my life sent you robes, Potter, and I sure as hell never sent you any books.'

Harry frowned, his jaw dropping. He had assumed given Flint had been the only one present able to afford such fine robes, he had been the one to send him them. Given the same eagle had given him books, Harry assumed it had Flint sending him the parcels, yet evidently it wasn't. Whoever it was had to have some connection with Madam Malkin or her shop assistant. Either that, or although he was reluctant to think about it, they had been watching him somehow. A shudder ran through his body at the thought and he forced himself to refocus on Flint. He would worry about the possibility of a possible stalker later.

'Anyway, the reason I wanted to talk to you is because I wanted to call in my favour.'

Emerald eyes darted up to meet icy blue, 'Why? You haven't exactly aided me in pretending to be a Death Eater.'

Flint's hands grabbed his shoulders, slamming him into the wall of the broom cupboard. 'Do no dare try to worm your way out of our deal, Potter. You swore on your magic I would have one favour to be called in at any time on the condition I keep you secret and help you keep it. As it so happens,' he smirked, stroking his wand as Harry swallowed, utterly defenceless, 'I have indeed been helping you keep you secret. I haven't told a single soul.'

Harry glowered at him, 'That's hardly aiding me.'

'On the contrary, Potter, it is. It would surely be odd of me, an unaligned Pureblood to suddenly be supporting the newly turned Dark Boy-Who-Lived.' Bringing his wand to stroke Harry's fringe away from his scar, Flint smirked at Harry's vulnerability. 'They have faint seeds of belief in you, given the separation between you and the Light and your little scene at Butcher's Tavern … but this scar represents everything they hate. Maybe if we carved it off, they would start to trust you more.' He laughed coldly, releasing Harry from his grip and he fell to the floor.

'I will aid you, Potter. I will teach you how to become the perfect Death Eater, but only if you do this favour for me. Unless you want to break your oath, loose your magic and have a hoard of Death Eaters after your defenceless body.'

Harry would spend the rest of his life in detention with Snape than do whatever horrible and no doubt drawn-out favour Flint required of him. But given the Slytherin had made it more than clear this was his only option, Harry swallowed tightly and braced himself for whatever new Hell was about to come.

'Fine. Tell me what you need me to do.'

* * *

><p><strong>Please review! I loved hearing all feedback and it really motivates me to update! :)<strong>


End file.
